•jbcatb's  lEnglisb  Classics. 


WORDSWORTH'S. 

• 

PREFACES  AND  ESSAYS  ON  POETRY; 


LETTER    TO    LADY    BEAUMONT. 

(I798-X845.) 


itefc  frritfj  Kntrotiuctt0n  anti 

BY 

A.  J.  GEORGE,  A.M. 

.'  V  E  1 

^     «  ^JJ 

"  Wordsworth  was  a  great  critic,  and  it  is  to  be  sincerely  regretted  that  he  has  not  left 
us  more  criticism."  —  MATTHEW  ARNOLD.    _.,.IT*'"^" 

"  Admirable  specimens  of  philosophical  criticism."  —  SIR  HENRY  TAYLOR. 

"No  one  can  read  the  reasoning  of  these  Prefaces  without  instruction."  —  PROF.  SHAIRP. 

"  The  Prefaces  are  most  valuable  contributions  to  our  literature  of  criticism."  — 
AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


BOSTON,    U.S.A.: 

D.   C.    HEATH   &   CO.,    PUBLISHERS. 
1892. 


Sjf-ol 

COPYRIGHT,  1892, 
BY  A.  J.   GEORGE. 


TYPOGRAPHY  BY  J.  S.  GUSHING  &  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 
PRESSWORK  BY  BERWICK  &  SMiTnTBosTON,  U.S.A. 


TO 

2Br,  Fere, 

THE  FRIEND  OF  WORDSWORTH, 

WHO  HAS  NOBLY  ILLUSTRATED   IN   PROSE  AND   VERSE 
THE  PRINCIPLES   OF   LITERATURE  AND  LIFE 
CONTAINED  IN  THESE 
PREFACES. 


"  High  is  our  calling,  Friend  !  —  Creative  Art 
(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues) , 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive  yet,  in  their  weakest  part, 
Heroically  fashioned  —  to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert. 
And,  Oh !  When  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may, 
Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress, 
Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward, 
And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay, 
Brook  no  continuance  of  weak  mindedness  — 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard." 


INTRODUCTION. 


"  He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen  —  on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round; 
He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears; 
He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 
Smiles  broke  from  us,  and  we  had  ease; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sunlit  fields  again; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  returned;  for  there  was  she 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furl'd, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world."  l 

A  spirit  of  manly  independence  has  characterized  every  era 
of  reformation,  but  in  our  own  century  this  spirit  has  had  a 
wider  range,  and  has  manifested  itself  in  a  greater  variety  of 
movements,  than  ever  before.  Independence  in  literature  and 
art,  in  church  and  state,  in  social  and  political  life,  has  been 
the  distinguishing  feature  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  the 
literature  of  Greece  and  Rome  the  state  is  the  centre,  and  the 
individual  is  of  little  account.  In  the  Middle  Ages  the  church 
1  Matthew  Arnold. 


^viii  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

is  the  centre,  and  here  too  the  individual  is  lost  in  the  system. 
In  modern  literature  the  state  and  the  church  are  represented, 
but  not  as  central,  the  individual  has  become  the  centre  of 
interest.  The  idea  of  the  individual  as  a  hero  because  he 
belongs  to  a  certain  class  has  given  way  to  the  idea  of  the 
hero  as  a  private  citizen,  as  Tennyson  says  — 

"  And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more." 
The  happy  warrior  is 

"  A  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes." 

It  is  this  elevation  of  the  private  man  to  the  place  of  honor 
in  literature  and  art,  in  church  and  state,  in  social  and  political 
life,  that  has  won  for  the  century  the  title  "revolutionary."  The 
revolutionary  movement  in  literature  consisted  chiefly  in  the 
restoration  of  passion,  "  which  is  highest  reason  in  a  soul 
sublime."  The  eighteenth  century  was  an  age  of  reason,  an 
age  of  prose ;  in  it  spiritual  east  winds  prevailed,  and  only  a 
few  of  those  who  faithfully  strove  to  be  loyal  to  the  higher 
ideal  were  successful  and  won  a  hearing.  Thomson  and 
Collins  saw  the  faint  glow  of  the  coming  dawn,  while  Allan  \ 
Ramsay  and  Hamilton  of  Bangour,  through  the  pathos  of  the 
ballad  and  Scotch  song,  exerted  a  marked  effect  upon  the 
poetry  of  the  generation. 

Beginning  thus,  the  return  to  nature  became  more  clearly 
marked  when  Gray  turned  to  the  Country  Churchyard  and 
Goldsmith  to  the  Deserted  Village,  when  Crabbe  sang  of  the 
Borough,  when  Cowper  mused  by  the  banks  of  the  languid 
Ouse,  and  Burns  crooned  his  immortal  lyrics  on  the  Scottish 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

hiljside,_.  Its  first  movement  was  completed  on  the  publication 
of  the  first  edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads  in  1 798. 

Passion  in  its  relation  to  modern  poetry  shows  itself  in 
Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  as  the  passion  of  youth,  with  a  ten- 
dency to  a  passionate  wail  of  despair ;  in  Arnold,  Clough,  and 
Rossetti  it  appears  in  the  form  of  Greek  idealism ;  in  Keble 
and  Newman  we  see  it  as  a  spiritual  light,  a  deity  within  the 
soul ;  while  in  Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and  Browning  it  be- 
comes the  connecting  link  between  the  priestly  and  the  scien-  . 
Uific  nature,  and  utters  itself  in  the  prayer  — 

"  Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell." 

The  origin  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  has  often  been  told.     Its 
joint  authorship  is  alluded  to  in  the  Prelude  as  follows :  — 

"That  summer,  under  whose  indulgent  skies 
Upon  smooth  Quantock's  airy  ridge  we  roved 
Unchecked,  or  loitered  mid  her  sylvan  combs, 
Thou  in  bewitching  words,  with  happy  heart, 
Didst  chaunt  the  vision  of  that  Ancient  Man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner ; 
And  I,  associate  with  such  labor,  steeped 
In  soft  forgetfulness  the  livelong  hours, 
Murmuring  of  him  who,  joyous  hap,  was  found, 
After  the  perils  of  his  moonlight  ride, 
Near  the  loud  waterfall." 

Although  this  volume  did  not  prove  profitable  to  the  Bristol 
publisher,    it   secured   the   poetic    fame    of    its   authors,    and 
enriched  the  world  of  English  poetry  as  no  one  volume  has 
since  done,  in  that  it  re-established  forever  the  principle  that  . 
the  soil  of  true  poetry  is  a  genuine  human  heartedness,  a  rev- 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

erence  for  the  beauty  and  the  worth  of  nature  as  revealing 
the  soul  of  God,  the  sanctity  of  the  domestic  affections,  whether 
under  cottage  roofs  or  in  the  "perfumed  chambers  of  the 
great."  In  1800  a  second  edition  was  published,  somewhat 
enlarged ;  it  contained  the  famous  Preface  which  set  forth 
Wordsworth's  theory  of  poetry  in  general  and  of  his  own  poetry 
in  particular,  and  which  called  down  upon  him  a  storm  of 
abuse  second  only  to  that  caused  by  the  poems  themselves. 
The  years  from  1798  to  1815 — the  midsummer  of  Words- 
worth's genius,  in  which  he  raised  that  "  monumentum  cere 
perennius"  —  were  years  of  neglect,  obloquy,  ridicule,  and 
disparagement.  It  is  to  these  same  years  that  we  owe  the 
sound  criticism  and  wise  reflection  of  the  Prefaces. 

In  the  edition  of  1802  the  preface  tofrthe  second  edition 
(1800)  was  enlarged,  and  there  was  added  an  appendix  on 
"  Poetic  Diction."  These  were  repeated  in  successive  editions 
until  1815  when,  in  the  edition  published  that  year,  the  first 
volume  contained  a  new  preface  and  a  supplementary  essay 
on  the  poetry  of  the  last  two  centuries ;  at  the  close  of  the 
second  volume  was  placed  the  preface  to  the  edition  of  1802 
and  the  essay  on  Poetic  Diction.  These  prefaces  were  changed 
by  alterations,  insertions,  and  omissions,  in  the  various  editions, 
until  they  received  their  last  revision  in  1845. 

While  it  is  true  that  Wordsworth  vanquished  his  opponents 
more  by  his  poems  than  by, his  Prefaces,  the  two  are  so  inter- 
related that  the  history  of  one  is  the  history  of  both.  Of  no 
artist  can  it  be  more  truly  said  than  of  Wordsworth  that  he 
builded  better  than  he  knew.  Artists  cannot  explain  the 
mystery  of  their  art,  and  yet  they  can  at  times  reveal,  to  us 
much  that  is  helpful  to  an  appreciation  of  their  work.  ^Every 
artist  brings  into  the  world  of  art  an  entirely  new  thing  —  his 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

own  personality  —  and  consequently  must   create  the  taste  by  ) 
which  he  is  to  be  judged. 

These  Prefaces  admit  us,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  for  us  to  be 
admitted,  into  the  secrets  of  the  poet's  workmanship  ;  they  lay 
bare  some  fundamental  processes  and  do  much  to  show  us  the 
truth  respecting  the  origin,  the  purpose,  and  the  power  of 
poetry.  Mr.  F.  W.  Myers  says  :  "  The  essays  effected,  what  is 
perhaps  as  much  as  the  writer  on  art  can  fairly  hope  to  accom- 
plish. They  placed  in  striking  light  that  side  of  the  subject 
which  had  been  too  long  ignored ;  they  aided  in  recalling  an 
art  which  had  become  conventional  and  fantastic  into  the 
normal  current  of  English  thought  and  speech."  "  In  his  first^" 
efforts,"  says  De  Vere,  "Wordsworth  was  doubtless  somewhat 
too  much  of  a  radical  reformer  as  regards  the  abuses  which 
had  long  corrupted  language.  His  remarks  on  that  subject 
seemed  to  assume  that  the  language  of  common  life  which  he 
recommended  for  poetical  purposes,  differed  little  from  that  of 
good  prose  writings,  a  statement  to  which  there  are  many 
exceptions.  He  did  not  succeed  in  thus  substituting  the  lan- 
guage of  common  life  for  poetic  diction ;  but  he  did  a  much 
better  thing.  He  dug  deep  into  the  ore  of  manly  thoughts, 
and  finding  there  a  corresponding  tongue,  both  new  and  true, 
he  blew  away  the  dry  dust  of  conventionalities  and  affectations, 
and  replaced  a  false  poetic  diction  by  a  genuine  one." 

As  I  have  said,  the  revolutionary  spirit  in  this  century  has 
been  general ;  and  it  is  but  natural  that,  if  it  altered  the  con- 
ception of  poetry,  it  should  at  the  same  time  affect  the  principles 
of  criticism.  Following  the  history  of  criticism  from  Aristotle 
to  Matthew  Arnold,  in  Italy,  Spain,  France,  Germany,  and 
England,  one  finds  that  there  is  substantial  agreement  upon 
the  idea  that  the  end  of  art  is  to  give  pleasure.  Each  nation, 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

however,  has  had  its  own  interpretation  of  pleasure,  and  hence 
the  history  of  criticism  is  exceedingly  complex. 

The  etymological  meaning  of  the  word  critic  is  a  judge,  and 
to  the  present  time  it  has  retained  with  varying  emphasis  this 
idea.  Aristotle,  Longinus,  Horace,  Aristarchus,  and  Boileau 
judged  by  fixed  principles  established  by  the  court  of  their 
predecessors.  They  rested  their  opinion  upon  a  logical  basis, 
they  appealed  to  established  canons  and  accepted  definitions, 
and  all  that  was  necessary  for  such  critics  was  a  knowledge  of 
these  historical  precedents.  This  classical  criticism  held  un- 
limited power  until  the  close  of  the  last  century.  The  divine 
right  of  such  an  order  was  then  challenged  both  in  Germany 
and  England,  where  the  right  of  individual  judgment  was  being 
insisted  upon.  The  prominence  of  the  personal  element,  in 
which  likes  and  dislikes  took  the  place  of  established  rules,  char- 
acterized the  romantic  school ;  this  in  turn  gave  way  to  the 
principle  of  induction.  Under  the  influence  of  Goethe,  Sainte- 
Beuve,  and  Matthew  Arnold,  this  movement,  by  uniting  the  clas- 
sical and  the  romantic,  has  resulted  in  producing  that  spirit  of 
disinterestedness  by  which  alone  the  real  in  art  can  be  recognized. 

"  The  form  of  this  world  passes ;  and  I  would  fain  occupy 
myself  with  that  only  which  constitutes  abiding  relations," 
said  Goethe.  M.  Sainte-Beuve,  speaking  of  the  function  of 
criticism,  says  :  "  The  first  consideration  for  us  is,  not  whether 
we  are  amused  and  pleased  by  a  work  of  art  or  mind,  nor  is  it 
whether  we  are  touched  by  it.  What  we  should  seek  first  of  all 
is,  —  ought  we  to  be  amused,  are  we  right  in  being  moved  by 
it,  in  applauding  it?"  Again  he  says  :  "The  critic  is  the  man 
who  knows  how  to  read  and  who  can  teach  others  how  to  read." 
"  Criticism,"  says  Matthew  Arnold,  "  is  a  disinterested  endeavor 
to  learn  and  propagate  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought 
in  the  world." 


INTRODUCTION.  xiii 

The  classical  school  was  judicial,  dealt  with  a  difference  in 
degree,  and  required  knowledge  of  precedents.  The  scientific 
school  is  inductive,  deals  with  differences  in  kind,  and  requires 
both  knowledge  and  sympathy.  So  long  as  the  classical  school 
ruled  was  it  any  wonder  that  the  history  of  literature  revealed  the 
triumph  of  author  over  critic?  The  war  which  Wordsworth 
waged  against  the  old  judicial  criticism  was  of  the  greatest 
moment  both  for  the  poet  and  the  critic.  In  these  Prefaces  we 
have  the  principles  which  constitute  the  foundation  of  inductive 

criticism. 

"  You  must  love  him  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love." 

It  is  doubtless  natural  that  one  should  enjoy  and  praise 
Wordsworth's  poetry  first,  but  his  criticism  should  by  no  means 
be  neglected,  for,  believe  me,  whether  one  goes  to  him  for 
poetry  or  criticism,  one  will  not  leave  him  without  a  blessing. 

"  Wisdom  sheathed 

In  song  love-humble;   contemplations  high, 
That  built  like  larks  their  nests  upon  the  ground; 
Insight  and  vision,  sympathies  profound 
That  spanned  the  total  of  humanity; 
These  were  the  gifts  which  God  poured  forth  at  large 
On  man  through  him;   and  he  was  faithful  to  his  charge."  * 

As  regards  Wordsworth's  prose  style  little  need  be  said. 
When  a  poet  chooses  to  adopt  the  prose  form  one  expects  to 
find  the  same  characteristics  as  distinguished  his  verse.  S£v_l£, 
either  in  prose  or  verse,  is  the  constant  transpiration  of  char- 
acter. As  it  is  the  distinctly  personal  element  that  renders 
Wordsworth's  poetry  "non  verba  sed  tonitrua,"  so  in  his  prose 
one  finds  everywhere  these  elements  of  strength,  dignity,  purity, 
and  truth  united  with  a  subtle  thought  and  tender  sensibility 
1  Aubrey  De  Vere. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

which  individualize  and  give  character  to  his  style.  There  is 
a  ruggedness  in  the  sentence  which  makes  it  often  austere  and 
heavy,  but  it  never  falls  into  the  opposite  fault  of  the  florid  and 
the  ornate.  It  may  be  said  that  Wordsworth's  sty-le  is  everywhere 
distinguished  for  its  manliness,  —  "  suavitas  austera  et  solida." 

The  seminary  method  of  teaching  English  literature  makes 
necessary  the  publication  of  the  best  texts  both  of  literature 
and  criticism  in  a  form  and  at  a  price  accessible  to  every 
student.  The  day  has  gone  by  when  pupils  can  be  lectured 
into  what  they  should  think  about  literature.  The  successful 
teacher  is  the  one  who  is  best  able  to  stimulate  the  student  to 
research  and  discovery  —  to  select  and  painstaking  reading. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  Mrs.  St.  John  of  Ithaca,  New  York, 
for  timely  assistance  in  the  matter  of  text,  and  for  calling 
my  attention  to  a  possible  inaccuracy  in  the  date  of  the 
second  essay,  as  recorded  in  the  bibliography  of  Wordsworth. 
It  is  certain  that  the  proper  date  is  1802  and  not  1815,  as 
given  by  Professor  Knight.  The  order  of  the  last  two  essays 
has  been  changed  from  that  found  in  Professor  Knight's  edi- 
tion of  the  poet's  works.  I  cannot  see  how  an  essay  supple- 
mentary to  the  preface  of  1815  can  precede  the  preface.  I  am 
very  grateful  for  permission  to  associate  this  edition  of  the 
Prefaces  with  the  name  of  one  who  has  seen  with  singular 
clearness  and  has  expressed  with  singular  force  and  beauty  the 
"  Wisdom  and  Truth/'  the  "  Genius  and  Passion,"  of  Words- 
worth. 

I  have  used  the  text  of  the  edition  of  1845  as  given  in  Gro- 
sart's  edition  of  the  prose  works  of  Wordsworth.  Of  the  dates 
prefixed  to  each  work  the  first  refers  to  the  year  of  composi- 
tion ;  the  second,  to  the  year  of  the  author's  last  revision. 

BROOKLINE,  MASS.,  June,  1892.  ^   j    Q 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE,  1800-1845 i 

APPENDIX,  1802-1845   33 

PREFACE,  1815-1845 40 

ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  PREFACE,    1815-1845 59 

LETTER  TO  LADY  BEAUMONT 95 

NOTES 101 

REFERENCES 119 

xv 


WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 


PREFACE, 

1800-1845. 

THE  first  Volume  of  these  Poems  has  already  been  sub- 
mitted to  general  perusal.  It  was  published,  as  an  experi- 
ment, which,  I  hoped,  might  be  of  some  use  to  ascertain, 
how  far,  by  fitting  to  metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of 
the  real  language  of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid  sensation,  that  5 
sort  of  pleasure  and  that  quantity  of  pleasure  may  be 
imparted,  which  a  Poet  may  rationally  endeavour  to  impart.1 

I  had  formed  no  very  inaccurate  estimate  of  the  proba- 
ble effect  of  those"  Poems:  I  flattered  myself  that  they  who 
should  be  pleased  with  them  would  read  them  with  more   J0 
than  common  pleasure  :  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  was  well 
aware,  that  by  those  who  should  dislike  them,  they  would 
be  read  with  more  than  common  dislike.     The  result  has 
differed  from  my  expectation  in  this  only,  that  a  greater 
number  have  been  pleased  than  I  ventured  to  hope  I  should   15 
'  please.2 

Several  of  my   Friends  are  anxious  for  the  success  of 
these*  Poems,  from  a  belief,  that,   if  the  views  with  which 
the-)t*vere  composed  were  indeed  realised,  a  class  of  Poetry  20 
would   be    produced,   well   adapted   to    interest   mankind 
permanently,  and  not  unimportant  in  the  quality,  and  in 


* 
2  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

the  multiplicity  of  its  moral  relations :  and  on  this  account 
they  have  advised  me  to  prefix  a  systematic  defence  of  the 
theory  upon  which  the  Poems  were  written,1  But  I  was 
unwilling  to  undertake  the  task,  knowing  that  on  this  occa- 

5  sion  the  Reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my  arguments, 
since  I  might  be  suspected  of  having  been  principally 
influenced  by  the  selfish  and  foolish  hope  of  reasoning  him 
into  an  approbation  of  these  particular  Poems;  and  I  was 
still  more  unwilling  to  undertake  the  task,  because,  ade- 

io  quately  to  display  the  opinions,  and  fully  to  enforce  the 
arguments,  would  require  a  space  wholly  disproportionate 
to  a  preface.  For,  to  treat  the  subject  with  the  clearness 
and  coherence  of  which  it  is  susceptible,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  give  a  full  account  of  the  present  state  of  the 

15  public  taste  in  this  country,  and  to  determine  how  far  this 
taste  is  healthy  or  depraved;  which,  again,  could  not  be 
determined,  without  pointing  out  in  what  manner  language 
and  the  human  mind  act  and  re-act  on  each  other,  and 
without  retracing  the  revolutions,  not  of  literature  alone, 

20  but  likewise  of  society  itself.  I  have  therefore  altogether 
declined  to  enter  regularly  upon  this  defence;  yet  I  am 
sensible,  that  there  would  be  something  like  impropriety 
in  abruptly  obtruding  upon  the  Public,  without  a  few  words 
of  introduction,  Poems  so  materially  different  from  those 

25   upon  which  general  approbation  is  at  present  bestowed. 

It  is  supposed,  that  by  the  act  otf  writing  in  verse  an 
Author  makes  a  formal  engagement  that  he  will  gratify 
certain  known  habits  of  association;  that  he  not  only  thus 
apprises  the  Reader  that  certain  classes  of  ideas  and 

30  expressions  will  be  found  in  his  book,  but  that  others  will 
be  carefully  excluded.  This  exponent  or  symbol  held 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  3 

forth  by  metrical  language  must  in  different  eras  of  litera- 
ture have  excited  very  different  expectations :  for  example, 
,  in  the  age  of  Catullus,  Terence,  and  Lucretius,  and  that 
of  Statius  or  Claudian;  and  in  our  own  country,  in  the  age 
of  Shakspeare  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  that  of  5 
Donne  and  Cowley,  or  Dryden,  or  Pope.  I  will  not  take 
upon  me  to  determine  the  exact  import  of  the  promise 
which,  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse,  an  Author  in  the 
present  day  makes  to  his  reader :  but  i£  will  undoubtedly 
appear  to  many  persons  that  I  have  not  fulfilled  the  terms  10 
of  an  engagement  thus  voluntarily  contracted.  They  who 
have  been  accustomed  to  the  gaudiness  and  inane  phrase- 
ology of  many  modern  writers,  if  they  persist  in  reading 
this  book  to  its  conclusion,  will,  no  doubt,  frequently  have 
to  struggle  with  feelings  of  strangeness  and  awkwardness :  15 
they  will  look  round  for  poetry,  and  will  be  induced  to 
inquire  by  what  species  of  courtesy  these  attempts  can  be 
permitted  to  assume  that  title.1  I  hope  therefore  the  reader 
will  not  censure  me  for  attempting  to  state  what  I  have 
proposed  to  myself  to  perform;  and  also  (as  far  as  the  20 
limitsjof  a  preface  will  permit)  to  explain  some  of  the  chief 
reasons  which  have  determined  me  in  the  choice  of  my 
purpose:  that  at  least  he  may  be  spared  any  unpleasant 
feeling  of  disappointment,  and  that  I  myself  may  be  pro- 
tected from  one  of  the  most  dishonourable  accusations  25 
which  can  be  brought  against  an  Author;  namely,  that  of 
an  indolence  which  prevents  him  from  endeavouring  to 
ascertain  what  is  his  duty,  or,  when  his  duty  is  ascertained, 
prevents  him  from  performing  it. 

The  principal  object,    then,   proposed  in  these  Poems  30 
was  to  choose  incidents  and  situations  from  common  life,     _ 


4  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

and  to  relate  or  describe  them,  throughout,  as  far  as  was 
possible  in  a  selection  of  language  really  used  by  men, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  throw  over  them  a  certain  col- 
ouring of  imagination, /whereby  ordinary  things  should  be 

5  presented  to  the  mind  in  an  unusual  aspect;  and,  further, 
and  above  all,  to  make  -these  incidents  and  situations  inter- 
esting by  tracing  in  them,  truly  though  not  ostentatiously, 
primary  laws  of  our  nature :  chiefly,  as  far  as  regards  the 
manner  in  which  sre  associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excite- 

10  ment.1  ,  Humble    and   rustic    life   was   generally'  chosen, 

because,   in  that  condition,   the  .essential  passions  of  the 

(  heaj   find  a  better  soil   in  which   they   can   attain   their 

maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer  and 

more  emphatic  language;  because  in  that  condition  of  life 

15  our  elementary  feelings  co-exist  in  a  state  of  greater  sim- 
plicity, and,  consequently,  may  be  more  accurately  con- 
templated, and  more  forcibly  communicated/  because  the 
manners  of  rural  life  germinate  from  those  elementary 
feelings,  and,  from  the  necessary  character  of  rural  occu- 

20  pations,  are  more  easily  comprehended,  and  are  more 
durable;  and,  lastly,  because  in  that  condition  the  passions 
of  men  are  incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and  permanent 

j  forms  of  Nature.2  The  language,  too,  of  these  men  has 
been  adopted  (purified  indeed  from  what  appear  to  be  its 

25  real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational  causes  of  dislike 
or  disgust)1  because  such  men  hourly  communicate  with  the 
best  objects  from  which  the  best  part  of  language  is  origi- 
nally derived  {  and  because,  from  their  rank  in  society  and 
the  sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse,  being- 

30  less  under  the  influence  of  social  vanity,  they  convey  their 

feelings  and  notions  in  simple  and  unelaborated  expressions. 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  5 

'Accordingly,  such  a  language,  arising  out  of  repeated 
experience  and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent,  and 
a  far  more  philosophical  language,  than  that  which  is  fre- 
quently substituted  for  it  by  Poets,  who  think  that  they 
are  conferring  honour  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in  5 
proportion  as  they  separate  themselves  from  the  sympathies 
of  men,  and  indulge  in  arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of 
expression,  in  order  to  furnish  food  for  fickle  tastes,  and 
fickle  appetites,  of  their  own  creation.* 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the  present  outcry  10 
against  the  triviality  and  meanness,  both  of  thought  and 
language,   which  some  of  my  contemporaries  have  occa- 
sionally introduced  into  their  metrical  compositions;  and 
I  acknowledge  that  this  defect,  where  it  exists,   is  more 
dishonourable  'to  the  Writer's   own   character  than  false   15 
refinement  or  arbitrary  innovation,  though  I  should  contend 
at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the  sum 
of  its  consequences.     From  such  verses  the  Poems  in  these 
volumes  will  be  found  distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark, 
of  difference,  that  each  of  them  has  a  worthy  purpose.     Not  -20 
that  I  always  began  to  write  with  a  distinct  purpose  for- 
mally conceived;  but  habits  of  meditation  have,  I  trust, 
so  prompted  and  regulated  my  feelings,  that  my  descrip- 
tions of  such  objects  as  strongly  excite  those  feelings,  will 
be   found   to  carry  along  with  them  a  purpose?     If   this  25. 
opinion  be  erroneous,  I  can  have  little  right  to  the  name 
of  a  Poet.2     For  all  good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  over- 
flow of  powerful  feelings :  and  though,  this  be  true,  Poems 

•• —  ___^___j__  y 

*  It  is  worth  while  here  to  observe,  that  the  affecting  parts  of  Chaucer  are 
almost  always  expressed  in  language  pure  and  universally  intelligible  even 
to  this  day. 


6  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

to  which  any  value  can  be  attached  were  never  produced 
on  any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man  who,  being  possessed 
of  more  than  usual  organic  sensibility,  had  also  thought 
long  an$  deeply.1  'For  our  continued  influxes  of  feeling 

5  are  modified  and  directed  by  our  thoughts,  which  are 
indeed  the  representatives  of  all  our  past  feelings;  and,  as 
by  contemplating  the  relation  of  these  general  representa- 
tives to  each  other,  we  discover  what  is  really  important  to 
men,  so,  by  the  repetition  and  continuance  of  this  act,  our 

i°  feelings  will  be  connected  with  important  subjects,  till  at 
length,  if  we  be  originally  possessed  of  much  sensibility, 
such  habits  of  mind  will  be  produced,  that,  by  obeying 
blindly  and  mechanically  the  impulses  of  those  habits,  we 
shall  describe  objects,  and  utter  sentiments,  of  such  a 

15  nature,  and  in  such  connection  with  each  other,  that  the 
understanding  of  the  Reader  must  necessarily  be  in  some, 
degree  enlightened,  and  his  affections  strengthened  and 
purified. 

It  has  been  said  that  each  of  these  poems  has  a  purpose. 

20  Another  circumstance  must  be  mentioned  which  distin- 
guishes these  Poems  from  the  popular  Poetry  of  the  day; 
it  is  this,  that  the  feeling  therein  developed  gives  impor- 
tance to  the  action  and  situation,  and  not  the  action  and 
situation  to  the  feeling.2 

25  A  sense  of  false  modesty  shall  not  prevent  me  from 
asserting,  that  the  Reader's  attention  is  pointed  to  this 
mark  of  distinction,  far  less  for  the  sake  of  these  particular 
Poems  than  from  the  general  importance  of  the  subject. 
The  subject  is  indeed  important!  For  the  human  mind  is 

30  capable  of  being  excited  without  the  application  of  gross 
and  violent  stimulants;  and  he  must  have  a  very  faint  per- 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  7 

ception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity  who  does  not  know  this, 
and  who  does  not  further  know,  that  one  being  is  elevated 
above  another,  in  proportion  as  he  possesses  this  capabil- 
ity.1    It  has  therefore  appeared  to  me,  that  to  endeavour  to 
produce- or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  of  the  best  ser-    5 
vices  in  which,  at  any  period,  a  Writer  can  be  engaged; 
but  this  service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  especially  so  at   \ 
the  present  day.     For  a  multitude  of  causes,  unknown  to  '  \ 
former  times,  are  now  acting  with  a  combined  force  to 
blunt  the  discriminating  powers  of  the  mind,  and,  unfitting  ,X° 
it  for  all  voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a  state  of  almost 
savage  torpor.     The  most  effective  of  these  causes  are  the 
great  national  events  which  are  daily  taking  place,  and  the 
increasing  accumulation  of  men  in  cities,  where  the  uni- 
formity of  their  occupations  produces  a  craving  for  ex-   15 
traordinary  incident,  which  the  rapid  communication  of 
intelligence  hourly  gratifies.     To  this  tendency  of  life  and 
manners  the  literature  and  theatrical  exhibitions  of  the 
country  have  conformed  themselves.2   The  invaluable  works 
of  our  elder  writers,  I  had  almost  said  the  works  of  Shak-  20 
speare   and   Milton,    are   driven   into  neglect  by  frantic 
novels,  sickly  and  stupid  German  Tragedies,  and  deluges 
of  idle  and  extravagant  stories  in  verse.  —  When  I  think 
upon  this  degrading  thirst  after  outrageous  stimulation,  I 
am  almost  ashamed  to  have  spoken  of  the  feeble  endeavour  25 
made  in  these  volumes  to  counteract  it;  and,   reflecting 
upon   the   magnitude   of   the   general   evil,    I    should   be 
oppressed  with  no  dishonourable  melancholy,  had  I  not  a 
deep   impression   of   certain  inherent   and  indestructible 
qualities  of  the  human  mind,  and  likewise  of  certain  powers  3° 
in  the  great  and  permanent  objects  that  act  upon  it,  which 


WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

are  equally  inherent  and  indestructible;  and  were  there 
not  added  to  this  impression  a  belief,  that  the  time  is 
approaching  when  the  evil  will  be  systematically  opposed, 
by  men  of  greater  powers,  and  with  far  more  distinguished 
success. 

Having  dwelt  jthus  long  on  the  subjects  and  aim  of  these 
Poems,  I  shall  request  the  Reader's  permission  to  apprise 
hinvffr-a  few  circumstances  relating  to  their  style,  in  order, 
among  other  reasons,  that  he  may  not  censure'  me  for  not 
having  performed  what  I  never  attempted.1 /The  Reader 
will  find  that  personifications  of  abstract  ideas  rarely  occur 
in  these  volumes;  and  are  utterly  rejected,  as  an  ordinary 
device  to  elevate  the  style,  and  raise  it  above  pros&2  My 
purpose  was  to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  to  adopt 
the  very  language  of  men ;1  and  assuredly  such  personifica- 
tions do  not  make  any  natural  or  regular  part  of  that  lan- 
guage. They  are,  indeed,  a  figure  of  speech  occasionally 
prompted  by  passion,  and  I  have  made  use  oT  them  as 
such;  but  have  endeavoured  utterly  to  reject  them  as  a 

20  mechanical  device  of  style,  or  as  a  family  language  which 
Writers  in  metre  seem  to  lay  claim  to  by  prescription.  I 
have  wished  to  keep  the  Reader  in  the  company  of  flesh 
and  blood,  persuaded  that  by  so  doing  I  shall  interest  him. 
Others  who  pursue  a  different  track  will  interest  him  like- 

25  wise;  I  do  not  interfere  with  their  claim,  but  wish  to 
prefer  a  claim  of  my  own.  jJThere  will  also  be  found  in 
these  volumes  little  of  what  is  usually  called  poetic  diction;  3 
as  much  pains  has  been  taken  to  avoid  it  as  is  ordinarily 
taken  to  produce  it;  this  has  been  done  for  the  reason 

30  already  alleged,  to  bring  my  language  near  to  the  language 
of  men;  and  further,  because  the  pleasure  which  I  have 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  9 

proposed  to  myself  to  impart,  is  of  a  kind  very  different 
from  that  which  is  supposed  by  many  persons  to  be  the 
proper  object  of  poetry.1  Without  being  culpably  particu- 
lar, I  do  not  know  how  to  give  my  Reader  a  more  exact 
notion  of  the  style  in  which  it  was  my  wish  and  intention  5 
to  write,  than  by  informing  him  that  I  have  at  all  times 
endeavoured  to  look  steadily  at  my  subject; 2  consequently, 
there  is  I  hope  in  these  Poems  little  falsehood  of  descrip- 
tion, and  my  ideas  are  expressed  in  language  fitted  to 
their  respective  importance.  Something  must  have  been  10 
gained  by  this  practice,  as  it  is  friendly  to  one  property  of 
all  good  poetry,  namely,  good  sense : 3  but  it  has  necessarily 
cut  me  dfi  from  a  large  portion  of  phrases  and  figures  of 
speech  which  from  father  to  son  have  long  been  regarded 
as  the  common  inheritance  of  Poets.  I  have  also  thought  J5 
it  expedient  to  restrict  myself  still  further,  having  abstained 
from  the  use  of  many  expressions,  in  themselves  proper 
and  beautiful,  but  which  have  been  foolishly  treated  by 
bad  Poets,  till  such  feelings  of  disgust  are  connected  with 
them  as  it  is  scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of  association  to  20 
overpower. 

If  in  a  Poem  there  should  be  found  a  series  of  lines,  or 
even  a  single  line,  in  which  the  language,  though  naturally 
arranged,  and  according  to  the  strict  laws  of  metre,  does 
not  differ  from  that  of  prose,  there  is  a  numerous  class  of  25 
critics,  who,  when  they  stumble  upon  these  prosaisms,  as 
they  call  them,   imagine  that  they  have  made  a  notable 
discovery,  and  exult  over  the  Poet  as  over  a  man  ignorant 
\of  his  own  profession.     Now  these  men  would  establish  a 
canon  of  criticism  which  the  Reader  will  conclude  he  must  30 
utterly  reject,  if  he  wishes  to  be  pleased  with  these  volumes.4 


10  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

And  it  would  be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to  him,  that  not 
only  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every  good  poem, 
even  of  the  most  elevated  character,  must  necessarily, 
except  with  reference  to  the  metre,  in  no  respect  differ 
,/5  from  that  of  good  prose,  but  likewise  that  some  of  the  most 
interesting  parts  of  the  best  poems  will  be  found  to  be 
^strictly  the  language  of  prose  when  vprose  is  well  written.1 
i  truth  of  this  assertion  might  be  demonstrated  by 
innumerable  passages  from  almost  all  the  poetical  writings, 

*o  even  of  Milton  himself.  To  illustrate  the  subject  in  a 
general  manner,  will  here  adduce  a  short  composition  of 
Gray,  who  was  at  the  head  of  those  who,  by  their  reason- 
ings, have  attempted  to  widen  the  space  of  separation 
betwixt  Prose  and  Metrical  composition,  and  was  more 

T5  than  any  other  man  curiously  elaborate  in  the  structure  of 
his  own  poetic  diction. 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 

And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire : 

The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
20  Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire. 

These  ears,  alas !  for  other  notes  repine ; 

A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  ; 

My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine  ; 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire  ; 
25  Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 

And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men; 

The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear; 

To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 

I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear, 
30  And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain. 

It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part  of  this 
Sonnet  which  is  of  any  value  is  the  lines  printed  in  Italics •; 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  H 

it  is  equally  obvious,  that,  except  in  the  rhyme,  and  in  the 
use  of  the  single  word  '  fruitless  '  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so 
far  a  defect,  the  language  of  these  lines  does  in  no  respect 
differ  from  that  of  prose. 

By  the  foregoing  quotation  it  has  been  showfT  that  the    5 
(language  of  Prose  may  yet  be  well  adapted  to  Poetry ;  and 
it   was   previously   asserted,   that   a  large  portion  of  the 
language  of  every  good  poem  can  in  no  respect  differ  from 
that  of  good  Prose.1     We  will  go  further.     It  may  be  safely 
affirmed,  that  there  neither  is,   nor  can  be,  any  essential  \s 
difference  between  the  language   of   prose   and   metrical 
composition.2    We  are   fond  of   tracing  the  resemblance 
between  Poetry  and  Painting,   and,   accordingly,  we  call 
them  Sisters :  but  where  shall  we  find  bonds  of  connection 
sufficiently  strict   to   typify  the   affinity  betwixt  metrical   J5 
and  prose  composition?     They  both  speak  by  and  to  the 
same  organs;  the  bodies  in  which  both  of  them  are  clothed 
may  be  said  to  be  of  the  same  substance,  their  affections 
are  kindred,  and  almost  identical,  not  necessarily  differing 
even  in  degree;  Poetry*  sheds  no  tears  'such  as  Angels  2o 
1  weep,'  but  natural  and  human  tears;  she  can  boast  of  no 
,  celestial  ichor  that  distinguishes  her  vital  juices  from  those 
'  of  prose;    the  same  human  blood  circulates  through  the 

i  veins  of  them  both. 

» 

*  I  here  use  the  word  '  Poetry '  (though  against  my  own  judgment)  as 
opposed  to  the  word  Prose,  and  synonymous  with  metrical  composition. 
But  much  confusion  has  been  introduced  into  criticism  by  this  contradistinc- 
tion of  Poetry  and  Prose,  instead  of  the  more  philosophical  one  of  Poetry 
and  Matter  of  Fact,  or  Science.  The  only  strict  antithesis  to  Prose  is  Metre  ; 
nor  is  this,  in  truth,  a  strict  antithesis,  because  lines  and  passages  of  metre 
so  naturally  occur  in  writing  prose,  that  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to 
avoid  them,  even  were  it  desirable. 


12  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhyme  and  metrical  arrangement  of 
themselves  constitute  a  distinction  which  overturns  what 
has  just  been  said  on  the  strict  affinity  of  metrical  language 
with  that  of  prose,  and  paves  the  way  for  other  artificial 

5  distinctions  which  the  mind  voluntarily  admits,  I  answer 
that  the  language  of  such  Poetry  as  is  here  recommended 
is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  selection  of  the  language  really 
spoken  by  men;  that  this  selection,  wherever  it  is  made 
with  true  taste  and  feeling,  will  of  itself  form  a  distinction 

10  far  greater  than  would  at  first  be  imagined,  and  will 
entirely  separate  the  composition  from  the  vulgarity  and 
meanness  of  ordinary  life;  and,  if  metre  be  superadded 
thereto,  I  believe  that  a  dissimilitude  will  be  produced 
altogether  sufficient  for  the  gratification  of  a  rational  mind.1 

IS  What  other  distinction  would  we  have?  Whence  is  it  to 
come?  And  where  is  it  to  exist?  Not,  surely,  where  the 
Poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  characters :  it  can- 
not be  necessary  here,  either,*  for  elevation  of  style,  or  any 
of  its  supposed  ornaments : /ior,  if  the  Poet's  subject  be 

20  judiciously  chosen,  it  will  naturally,  and  upon  fit  occasion, 
lead  him  to  passions  the  language  of  which,  if  selected 
truly  and  judiciously,  must  necessarily  be  dignified  and 
variegated,  and  alive  with  metaphors  and  figures,  I  for- 
beaT  to  speak  of  an  incongruity  which  would  shock  the 

25  intelligent  Reader,  should  the  Poet  interweave  any  foreign 
splendour  of  his  own  with  that  which  the  passion  naturally 
suggests:  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  such  addition  is 
unnecessary.  And,  surely,  it  is  more  probable  that  those 
passages,  which  with  propriety  abound  with  metaphors  and 

30  figures,  will  have  their  due  effect,  if,  upon  other  occasions 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  13 

where  the  passions  are  of  a  milder  character,  the  style  also 
be  subdued  and  temperate. 

But,  as  the  pleasure  which  I  hope  to  give  by  the  Poems 
now  presented  to  the  Reader  must  depend  entirely  on  just 
notions  upon  this  subject,  and,  as  it  is  in  itself  of  high  5 
importance  to  our  taste  and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot  con- 
tent myself  with  these  detached  remarks.  And  if,  in  what 
I  am  about  to  say,  it  shall  appear  ta  some  that  my  labour 
is  unnecessary,  and  that  I  am  like  a  man  fighting  a  battle 
without  enemies,  such  persons  may  be  reminded,  that,  10 
whatever  be  the  language  outwardly  holden  by  men,  a 
practical  faith  in  the  opinions  which  I  am  wishing  to 
establish  is  almost  unknown.  If  my  conclusions  are 
admitted,  and  carried  as  far  as  they  must  be  carried  if 
admitted  at  all,  our  judgments  concerning  the  works  of  the  J5 
greatest  poets  both  ancient  and  modern  will  be  far  differ- 
ent from  what  they  are  at  present,  both  when  we  praise, 
and  when  we  censure :  and  our  moral  feelings  influencing 
and  influenced  by  these  judgments  will,  I  believe,  be  cor- 
rected and  purified.1  20 

Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general  grounds,  let 
me  ask,  what  is  meant  by  the  word  Poet?  What  is  a  Poet? 
To  whom  does  he  address  himself  ?  And  what  language  is 
to  be  expected  from  him  ? 2  — i  He  is  a  man  speaking  to  men : 
a  man,  it  is  true,  endowed  with  more  lively  sensibility,  25 
more  enthusiasm  and  tenderness,  who  has  a  greater  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature,  and  a  more  comprehensive  soul, 
than  are  supposed  to  be  common  among  mankind;  a  man 
pleased  with  his  own  passions  and  volitions,  and  who 
rejoices  more  than  other  men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  30 
him;  delighting  to  contemplate  similar  volitions  and  pas- 


14  .  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

sions  as  manifested  in  the  goings-on  of  the  Universe,  and 
habitually  impelled  to  create  them  where  he  does  not  find 
therri^  To  these  qualities  he  has  added  a  disposition  to 
be  affected  more  than  other  men  by  absent 'things  as  if  they 

5  were  present;  an  ability  of  conjuring  up  in  himself  pas- 
sions, which  are  indeed  far  from  being  the  same  as  those 
produced  by  real  events,  yet  (especially  in  those  parts  of 
the  general  sympathy  which  are  pleasing  and  delightful) 
do  more  nearly  resemble  the  passions  produced  by  real 

*3  events,  than  anything  which,  from  the  motions  of  their 
own  minds  merely,  other  men  are  accustomed  to  feel  in 
themselves :  —  whence,  and  from  practice,  he  has  acquired 
a  greater  readiness  and  power  in  expressing  what  he  thinks 
and  feels,  and  especially  those  thoughts  and  feelings 

15  which,  by  his  own  choice,  or  from  the  structure  of  his  own 
mind,  arise  in  him  without  immediate  external  excitement. 

<<*    But  whatever  portion  of  this 'faculty  we  may  suppose 

|  even  tke  greatest  Poet  to  possess,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt 

that  the  language  which  it  will  suggest  to  him,  must  often, 

20  in  liveliness  and  truth,  fall  short  of  that  which  is  uttered 
by  men  in  real  life,   under  the  actual  pressure  of  those 
passions,  certain  shadows  of  which  the  Poet  thus  produces, 
\   or  feels  to  be  produced,  in  himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to  cherish  of 

25  the  character  of  a  Poet,  it  is  obvious,  that  while  he 
describes  and  imitates  passions,  his  employment  is  in  some 
degree  mechanical,  compared  with  the  freedom  and  power 
of  real  and  substantial  action  and  suffering.  So  that  it 
will  be  the  wish  of  the  Poet  to  bring  his  feelings  near  to 

30  those  of  the  persons  whose  feelings  he  describes,  nay,  for 
short  spaces  of  time,  perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into  an 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  15 

entire  delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify  his  own 
feelings  with  theirs;1  modifying  only  the  language  which  is 
thus  suggested  to  him  by  a  consideration  that  he  describes 

•  for  a  particular  purpose,  that  of  giving  pleasure.     Here, 
then,  he  will  apply  the  principle  of  selection  which  has    5 

I  been  already  insisted  upon.  He  will  depend  upon  this  for 
removing  what  would  otherwise  be  painful  or  disgusting  in 
the  passion;  he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  necessity  to  trick 
out  or  to  elevate  nature:  and,  the  more  industriously  he 
applies  this  principle,  the  deeper  will  be  his?  faith  that  no  10 
words,  which  his  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest,  will  be 

*  to  be  compared  with  those  which  are  the  emanations  of 
reality  and  truth.2 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not  object  to  the 
general  spirit  of  these  remarks,  that,  as  it  is  impossible  for  J5 
the  Poet  to  produce  upon  all  occasions  language  as  exquis- 
itely fitted  for  the  passion  as  that  which  the  real  passion 
itself  suggests,  it  is  proper  that  he  should  consider  himself 
as  in  the  situafion  of  a  translator,  who  does  not  scruple  to 
substitute  excellencies  of  another  kind  for  those  which  are  20 
unattainable  by  him;  and  endeavours  occasionally  to  sur- 
pass his  original,  in  order  to  make  some  amends  for  the 
general  inferiority  to  which  he  feels  that  he  must  submit. 
But  this  would  be  to   encourage    idleness   and   unmanly 
despair.     Further,  it  is  the  language  of  men  who  speak  of  25 
what  tney  do  not  understand;  who  talk  of  Poetry  as  of  a 
matter  of  amusement  and  idle  pleasure;3  who  will  converse 
.with  us  as  gravely  about  a  taste  for  Poetry,  as  they  express 
it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  as  indifferent  as  a  taste  for  rope- 
dancing,  or  Frontiniac  or  Sherry.     Aristotle,  I  have  been  30 
told,  has  said,  that  Poetry  is  the  most  philosophic  of  all 


16  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

\  writing:1  it  is  so:  its  object  is  truth,   not  individual  and 

local,  but  general,  and  operative;  not  standing  upon  exter- 

1  nal  testimony,  but  carried  alive  into  the  heart  by  passion; 

truth  which  is  its  own  testimony,-  which  gives  competence 

5  and  confidence  to  the  tribunal  to  whrch  it  appeals,  and 
receives  them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is  the  image 
ojjgan _andjDature . 2  The  obstacles  which  stand  in  the  way 
of  the  fidelity  of  the  Biographer  and  Historian,  and  of 
their  consequent  utility,  are  incalculably  greater  than  those 

ioj  which  are  to  be  encountered  by  the  Poet  who  comprehends 
the  dignity  of  his  art.  The  Poet  writes  under  one  restric- 
tion only,  namely,  the  necessity  of  giving  immediate 
pleasure  to  a  human  Being  possessed  of  that  information 
I  which  may  be  expected  from  him,  not  as  a  lawyer,  a 

!5  physician,  a  mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a  natural  philoso- 
pher, but  as  a  Man.3  Except  this  one  restriction,  there  is 
no  object  standing  between  the  Poet  and  the  image  of 
things;  between  this,  and  the  Biographer  and  Historian, 
there  are  a  thousand. 

20  Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate  pleasure 
be  considered  as  a  degradation  of  the  Poet's  art.4  It  is  far 
otherwise.  It  is  an  acknowledgment  of  the  beauty  of  the 
universe,  an  acknowledgment  the  more  sincere,  because 
not  formal,  but  indirect;  it  is  a  task  light  and  easy  to  him 

25  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the  spirit  of  love :  further,  it  is 
a  homage  paid  to  the  native  and  naked  dignity  of  man,  to 
the  grand  elementary  principle  of  pleasure,  by  which  he 
knows,  and  feels,  and  lives,  and  moves.  We  have  no 
sympathy  but  what  is  propagated  by  pleasure :  I  would  not 

30  be  misunderstood;  but  wherever  we  sympathise  with  pain, 
it  will  be  found  that  the  sympathy  is  produced  and  carried 


PREFACE,    1800-1843.  17 

on  by  subtile  combinations  with  pleasure.  We  have  no 
knowledge,  that  is,  no  general  principles  drawn  from  the 
contemplation  of  particular  facts,  but  what  has  been  built 
up  by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us  by  pleasure  alone.  The 
Man  of  science,  the  Chemist  and  Mathematician,  whatever  5 
difficulties  and  disgusts  they  may  have  had  to  struggle  with, 
know  and  feel  this.  However  painful  may  be  the  objects 
with  which  the  Anatomist's  knowledge  is  connected,  he 
feels  that  his  knowledge  is  pleasure;  and  where  he  has  no 
pleasure  he  has  no  knowledge.  What  then  does  the  Poet?  10 
[He  considers  man  and  the  objects  that  surround  him  as 
acting  and  re-acting  upon  each  Bother,  so  as  to  produce  an 
infinite  complexity  of  pain  and  pleasure;;  he  considers  man 
in  his  own  nature  and  in  his  ordinary  life  as  contemplat- 
ing this  with  a  certain  quantity  of  immediate  knowledge,  I5 
with  certain  convictions,  intuitions,  and  deductions,  which 
from  habit  acquire  the  quality  of  intuitions;  he  considers 
him  as  looking  upon  this  complex  scene  of  ideas  and  sen- 
sations, and  finding  every  where  objects  that  immediately 
excite  in  him  sympathies  which,  from  the  necessities  of  20 
his  nature,  are  accompanied  by  an  overbalance  of  enjoy- 
ment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about  with  them, 
and  to  these  sympathies  in  which,  without  any  other  disci- 
pline than  that  of  our  daily  life,  we  are  fitted  to^take  delight,   25 
the  Poet  principally  directs  his  attention.1     He  considers 
man  and  nature  as  essentially  adapted  to  each  other,  and    \ 
the  mind  of  man  as  naturally  the  mirror  of  the  fairest  and 
most  interesting  properties  of  nature.     And  thus  the  Poet, 
prompted  by  this  feeling  of  pleasure,  which  accompanies  30 
him  through  the  whole   course   of   his   studies,  converses 


18  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

with  general  nature,  with  affections  akin  to  those,  which, 
through  labour  and  length  of  time,  the  Man  of  science  has 
raised  up  in  himself,  by  conversing  with  those  particular 
parts  of  nature  which  are  the  objects  of  his  studies.  The 

5  knowledge  both  of  the  Poet  and  the  Man  of  science  is 
pleasure;  but  the  knowledge  of  the  one  cleaves  to  us  as  a 
necessary  part  of  our  existence,  our  natural  and  unalienable 
inheritance;  the  other  is  a  personal  and  individual  acqui- 
sition, slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by  no  habitual  and  direct 

10  sympathy  connecting  us  with  our  fellow-beings.  The  Man 
of  science  seeks  truth  as  a  remote  and  unknown  benefactor; 1 
he  cherishes  and  loves  it  in  his  solitude:  the  Poet,  singing 
a  song  in  which  all  human  beings  join  with  him,  rejoices 
in  the  presence  of  truth  as  our  visible  friend  and  hourly 

*5  companion.   (Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all 

knowledge;  it  is  the  impassioned- expression  which  is  in 

,  rhe  countenance  of  all  Science^    Emphatically  may  it  be 

said  of  the  Poet,  as  Shakespeare  hath  said  of  man,  'that  he 

looks  before  and  after.'     He  is  the  rock  of  defence  for 

20  human  nature;  an  upholder  and  preserver,  carrying  every 
where  with  him  relationship  and  love.  In  spite  of  differ- 
ence of  soil  and  climate,  of  language  and  manners,  of  laws 
and  customs :  in  spite  of  things  silently  gone  out  of  mind, 
and  things  violently  destroyed;  the  Poet  binds  together  by 

25  passion  and  knowledge  the  vast  empire  of  human  society, 

*as  it  is  spread  over  the  whole  earth,   and  over  all  time. 

The    objects    of    the    Poet's    thoughts    are   every  where; 

though  the  eyes  and  senses  of  man  are,    it  is  true,   his 

favourite  guides,  yet  he  will  follow  wheresoever  he  can  find 

30  an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in  which  to  move  his  wings. 
Poetry  is  the  first  and  last  of  all  knowledge  —  it  is  as 


PREFACE,   1800-1843.  19 

immortal  as  the  heart  of  man.1     If  the  labours  of  Men  of 
science  should  ever  create  any  material  revolution,  direct 
or  indirect,  in  our  condition,  and  in  the  impressions  which 
we  habitually  receive,  the  Poet  will  sleep  then  no  more 
than  at  present;  he  will  be  ready  to  follow  the  steps  of  the    5 
Man  of  science,  not  only  in  those  general  indirect  effects, 
but  he  will  be  at  his  side,  carrying  sensation  into  the  midst 
of  the  objects  of  the  science  itself.     The  remotest  dis- 
coveries of  the   Chemist,   the    Botanist,   or  Mineralogist, 
will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the  Poet's  art  as  any  upon  10. 
which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  time  should  ever  come 
when  these  things  shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  the  relations 
under  which  they  are  contemplated  by  the  followers  of 
these  respective  sciences  shall  be  manifestly  and  palpably 
material  to  us  as  enjoying  and  suffering  beings.     If  the  15 
time  should  ever  come  when  what  is  now  called  science, 
thus  familiarised  to  men,  shall  be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it 
were,  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  the  Poet  will  lend  his     I 
divine  spirit  to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and  will  welcome 
the  Being  thus  produced,  as  a  dear  and  genuine  inmate  of  20 
the  household  of  man.2  —  It  is  not,  then, -to  be  supposed 
that  any  one,  who  holds  that  sublime  notion  of  Poetry 
which  I  have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break  in  upon  the 
sanctity  and  truth  of  his  pictures  by  transitory  and  acci- 
dental ornaments^  and  endeavour  to  excite  admiration  of  2$ 
himself  by  artsAthe  necessity  of  which  must  manifestly 
depend  upon  the' assumed  meanness  of  his  subject.3  - 

What  has  been  thus  far  said  applies  to  Poetry  in  general; 
but  especially  to  those  parts  of  composition  where  the  Poet 
speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  character;  and  upon  this  30 
point  it  appears  to  authorise  the  conclusion  that  there  are 


20  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

few  persons  of  good  sense,  who  would  not  allow  that  the 
dramatic  parts  of  composition  are  defective,  in  proportion 

1  as  they  deviate  from  the  real  language  of  ^nature,  and  are 
coloured  by  a  diction  of  the  Poet's  own,  either  peculiar  to 

^  him  as  an  individual  Poet  or  belonging  simply  to  Poets  in 
general;  to  a  body  of  men  who,  from  the  circumstance  of 
their  composition  being  in  metre,  it  is  expected  will 
employ  a  particular  language. 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  of  composition  that 

10  we  look  for  this  distinction  of  language;  but  still  it  may 

be  proper  and  necessary  where  the  Poet  speaks  to  us  in  his 

,  own  person  and  character.     To  this  I  answer  by  referring 

the  Reader   to  the  description  before  given  of  a  Poet. 

Among  the  qualities  there  enumerated  as  principally  con- 

15  ducing  to  form  a  Poet,  is  implied  nothing  differing  in  kind 
from  other  men,  but  only  in  degree.  The  sum  of  what 
was  said  is,  that  the  Poet  is  chiefly  distinguished  from 
other  men  by  a  greater  promptness  to  think  and  feel  with- 
out immediate  external  excitement,  and  a  greater  power 

20  in  expressing  such  thoughts  and  feelings  as  are  produced  in 
him  in  that  manner.1  But  these  passions  and  thoughts  and 
feelings  are  the  general  passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  men.  And  with  what  are  they  connected  ?  Undoubtedly 
with  our  moral  sentiments  and  animal  sensations,  and  with 

25  the  causes  which  excite  these;  with  the  operations  of  the 
elements,  and  the  appearances  of  the  visible  universe; 
with  storm  and  sunshine,  with  the  revolutions  of  the 
seasons,  with  cold  and  heat,  with  loss  of  friends  and  kin- 
dred, with  injuries  and  resentments,  gratitude  and  hope, 

3°  with  fear  and  sorrow.  These,  and  the  like,  are  the  sensa- 
tions and  objects  which  the  Poet  describes,  as  they  are  the 


PREFACE,   1800-1843.  21 

sensations  of  other  men,   and  the  objects  which  interest 
them.     The  Poet  thinks  and  feels  in  the  spirit  of  human  \ 
passions.       How,    then,   can   his   language   differ  in  any 
material  degree  from  that  of  all  other  men  who  feel  vividly 
and  see  clearly?     It  might  be /ra^  that  it  is  impossible.     5 
But  supposing  that  this  were  not  the  case,  the  Poet  might 
then  be  allowed  to  use  a  peculiar  language  when  expressing 
his  feelings  for  his  own  gratification,  or  that  of  men  like 
himself.     But  Poets  do  not  write  for  Poets  alone,  but  for 
men.     Unless  therefore  we  are  advocates  for  that  admira-  10 
tion  which  subsists  upon  ignorance,  and  that  pleasure  which 
arises  from  hearing  what  we  do  not  understand,  the  Poet 
must  descend  from  this  supposed  height;  and,  in  order  to 
excite  rational  sympathy,  he  must  express  himself  as  other 
men  express  themselves.     To  this  it  may  be  added,  that] '5 
while  he  is  only  selecting  from  the  real  language  of  men, 
or,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  composing  accurately 
in  the  spirit  of  such  selection,   he  is  treading  upon  safe 
ground,  and  we  know  what  we  are  to  expect  from  him. 
Our  feelings  are  the  same  with  respect  to  metre;  for,  as  it  20 
may  be  proper  to  remind  the  Reader,  the  distinction  of 
metre  is  regular  and  uniform,  and  not,  like  that  which  is 
produced  by  what  is  usually  called  POETIC  DICTION,  arbi- 
trary,   and   subject  to  infinite   caprices,    upon   which  no 
calculation  whatever  can  be  made.1     In  the  one  case,  the  25 
Reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  Poet,  respecting  what 
imagery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to  connect  with  the 
passion;  whereas,   in  the  other,   the  metre  obeys  certain 
laws,  to  which  the  Poet  and  Reader  fyoth  willingly  submit 
because  they  are  certain,  and  because  no  interference  is  3° 
made  by  them  with  the  passion  but  such  as  the  concurring 


22  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

testimony  of  ages  has  shown  to  heighten  and  improve  the 
pleasure  which  co-exists  with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious  question, 
namely,  Why,  professing  these  opinions,  have  I  written  in 

5  verse?  To  this,  in  addition  to  such  answer  as  is  included 
in  what  has  been  already  said,  I  reply,  in  the  first  place, 
Because,  however  I  may  have  restricted  myself,  there  is 
still  left  open  to  me  what  confessedly  constitutes  the  most 
valuable  object  of  all  writing,  whether  in  prose  or  verse; 

10  the  great  and  universal  passions  of  men,  the  most  general 
and  interesting  of  their  occupations,  and  the  entire  world 
of  nature  before  me  —  to  supply  endless  combinations  of 
forms  and  imagery.  Now,  supposing  for  a  moment  that 
whatever  is  interesting  in  these  objects  may  be  as  vividly 

15  described    in    prose,    why    should   I   be   condemned    for 

attempting   to   superadd  to  such  description,   the  charm 

which,  by  the  consent  of  all  nations,  is  acknowledged  to 

'exist  in  metrical  language?     To  this,  by  such  as  are  yet 

unconvinced,    it  may  be  answered  that  a  very  small  part 

20  of  the  pleasure  given  by  Poetry  depends  upon  the  metre, 
and  that  it  is  injudicious  to  write  in  metre,  unless  it  be 
accompanied  with  the  other  artificial  distinctions  of  style 
with  which  metre  is  usually  accompanied,  and  that,  by 
such  deviation,  more  will  be  lost  from  the  shock  which 

25  will  hereby  be  given  to  the  Reader's  associations  than 
will  be  counterbalanced  by  any  pleasure  which  he  can 
derive  from  the  general  power  of  numbers.  In  answer 
to  those  who  still  contend  for  the  necessity  of  accom- 
panying metre  with,  certain  appropriate  colours  of  style 

3°  in  order  to  the  accomplishment  of  its  appropriate  end, 
and  who  also,  in  my  opinion,  greatly  underrate  the 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  23 

power  of  metre  in  itself,  it  might,  perhaps,  as  far  as  relates 
to  these  Volumes,  have  been  almost  sufficient  to  observe, 
that  poems  are  extant,  written  upon  more  humble  subjects, 
and  in  a  still  more  naked  and  simple  style,  whidh  have 
continued  to  give  pleasure  from  generation  to  generation.  5 
Now,  if  nakedness  and  simplicity  be  a  defect,  the  fact 
here  mentioned  affords  a  strong  presumption  that  poems 
somewhat  less  naked  and  simple  are  capable  of  affording 
pleasure  at  the  present  day;  and,  what  I  wished  chiefly  to 
attempt,  at  present,  was  to  justify  myself  for  having  written  10 
under  the  impression  of  this  belief. 

But  various  causes  might  be  pointed  out  why,  when  the 
style  is  manly,  and  the  subject  of  some  importance,  words 
metrically  arranged  will  long  continue  to  impart  such  a 
pleasure  to  mankind  as  he  who  proves  the  extent  of  that  15 
pleasure  will  be  desirous  to  impart.     The  end  of  Poetry  is   - 
to  produce. excitement  in  co-existence  with  an  overbalance  ^ 
of   pleasure^    but,  by  the   supposition,   excitement   is   an 
unusual  and'  irregular  state  of  the  mind;  ideas  and  feelings 
do  not,  in  that  state,  succeed  each  other  in  accustomed  20 
order.     If  the  words,  however,   by  which  this  excitement 
is  produced  be  in  themselves  powerful,  or  the  images  and 
feelings  have  an  undue  proportion  of  pain  connected  with 
them,  there  is  some  danger  that  the  excitement  may  be 
carried  beyond  its  proper  bounds.     Now  the  co-presence  25 
of  something  regular,  something  to  which  the  mind  has 
been  accustomed  in  various  moods  and  in  a  less  excited 
state,   cannot   but   have  great  efficacy  in  tempering  and 
restraining   the   passion   by   an    intertexture    of    ordinary 
feeling,   and  of  feeling  not  strictly  and  necessarily  con-  3° 
nected  with  the  passion.     This  is  unquestionably  true;  and 


24  WORDSWORTH^S  PREFACES. 

hence,  though  the  opinion  will  at  first  appear  paradoxical, 
from  the  tendency  of  metre  to  divest  language,^  in  a  cer- 
tain degree,  of  its  reality,  and  thus  to  throw  a  sort  of  half- 
consciousness  of  unsubstantial  existence  over  the  whole 

5    composition,    there    can    be   little   doubt   but   that   more 

pathetic   situations  and  sentiments,   that  is,   those  which 

jhave  a  greater  proportion  of  pain  connected  with  them, 

/may  be  endured  in  metrical  composition,  especially  in 

•'  rhyme,  than  in  prose.     The  metre  of  the  old  ballads  is  very 

10  artless;  yet  they  contain  many  passages  which  would  illus- 
trate this  opinion;  and  I  hope,  if  the  following  Poems 
be  attentively  perused,  similar  instances  will  be  found  in 
them.  This  opinion  may  be  further  illustrated  by  appeal- 
ing to  the  Reader's  own  experience  of  the  reluctance  with 

J5  which  he  comes  to  the  re-perusal  of  the  distressful  parts  of 
Clarissa  Harlow,  or  the  Gamester ;  while  Shakspeare's 
writings,  in  the  most  pathetic  scenes,  never  act  upon  us, 
as  pathetic,  beyond  the  bounds  of  pleasure  — an  effect 
which,  in  a  much  greater  degree  than  might  at  first  be 

20  imagined,  is  to  be  ascribed  to  small,  but  continual  and 
regular  impulses  of  pleasurable  surprise  from  the  metrical 
arrangement.  —  On  the  other  hand  (what  it  must  be  allowed 
will  much  more  frequently  happen)  if  the  Poet's  words 
should  be  incommensurate  with  the  passion,  and  inade- 

25  quate  to  raise  the  Reader  to  a  height  of  desirable  excite- 
ment, then,  (unless  the  Poet^s  choice  of  his  metre  has  been 
grossly  injudicious)  in  the  feelings  of  pleasure  which  the 
Reader   has   been  accustomed  to  connect  with  metre  in 
general,   and  in  the  feeling,  whether  cheerful  or  melan- 

30  choly,  which  he  has  been  accustomed  to  connect  with  that 
particular  movement  of  metre,  there  will  be  found  some- 


PREFACE,   1800-1843.  25 

thing  which  will  greatly  contribute  to  impart  passion  to 
the  words,  and  to  effect  the  complex  end  which  the  Poet 
proposes  to  himself. 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  SYSTEMATIC  defence  of  the  theory 
here  maintained,  it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  develop  5 
the  various  causes  upon  which  the  pleasure  received  from 
metrical  language  depends.  Among  the  chief  of  these 
causes  is  to  be  reckoned  a  principle  which  must  be  well 
known  to  those  who  have  made  any  of  the  arts  the  object 
of  accurate  reflection;  namely,  the  pleasure  which  the  IQ 
mind  derives  from  the  perception  of  similitude  in  dissimil- 
itude.1 This  principle  is  the  great  spring  of  the  activity 
of  our  minds,  and  their  chief  feeder.  From  this  principle 
the  direction  of  the  sexual  appetite,  and  all  the  passions 
connected  with  it,  take  their  origin:  it  is  the  life  of  our  J5 
ordinary  conversation;  and  upon  the  accuracy  with  which 
similitude  in  dissimilitude,  and  dissimilitude  in  similitude 
are  perceived,  depend  our  taste  and  our  moral  feelings. 
It  would  not  be  a  useless  employment  to  apply  this  prin- 
ciple to  the  consideration  of  metre,  and  to  show  that  metre  20 
is  hence  enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure,  and  to  point  out 
in  what  manner  that  pleasure  is  produced.  But  my  limits 
will  not  permit  me  to  enter  upon  this  subject,  and  I  must 
content  myself  with  a  general  summary. 

I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  25 


powerful  feelings:,  it  take_s  its  origin  from  emotion 
lected  JaJjanquillity  :  the  emotion  is  contemplated  till,  by 
a  species  of  re-action,  the  tranquillity  gradually  disappears, 
and  an  emotion,  kindred  to  that  which  was  before  the  sub- 
ject of  contemplation,  is  gradually  produced,  and  does 
itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind.2  In  this  mood  successful 


26  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

composition  generally  begins,  and  in  a  mood  similar  to 
this  it  is  carried  on;  but  the  emotion,  of  whatever  kind, 

iand  in  whatever  degree,  from  various  causes,   is  qualified 
by  various  pleasures,    so  that  in  describing  any  passions 
whatsoever,  which  are  voluntarily  described,  the  mind  will, 
upon  the  whole,  be  in  a  state  of  enjoyment.     If  Nature  be 
/thus  cautious  to  preserve  in  a  state  of  enjoyment  a  being 
/so  employed,  the  Poet  ought  to  profit  by  the  lesson  held 
/  forth  to  him,  and  ought  especially  to  take  care,  that,  what- 
10  ever  passions  he  communicates  to  his  Reader,  those  pas- 
sions, if  his  Reader's  mind  be  sound  and  vigorous,  should 
always  be  accompanied  with  an  overbalance  of  pleasure. 
Now  the  music  of  harmonious  metrical  language,  the  sense 
of  difficulty  overcome,  and  the  blind  association  of  pleasure 
15  which  has  been  previously  received  from  works  of  rhyme 
or  metre  of  the  same  or  similar  construction,  an  indistinct 
perception  perpetually  renewed  of  language  closely  resem- 
bling that  of  real  life,  and  yet,  in  the  circumstance  ofmetre, 
differing  from  it  so  widely  —  all  these  imperceptibly  make 
20  up  a  complex  feeling  of   delight,    which   is   of   the   most 
important   use    in  tempering  the   painful    feeling   always 
found    intermingled    with    powerful    descriptions    of    the 
deeper  passions.1   This  effect  is  always  produced  in  pathetic 
and  impassioned  poetry;  while,   in  lighter  compositions, 
25  the  ease  and  gracefulness  with  which  the  Poet  manages  his 
numbers  are  themselves  confessedly  a  principal  source  of 
the  gratification  of  the  Reader.      All  that  it  is  necessary  to 
)   say,  however,  upon  this  subject,  may  be  effected  by  affirm  - 
/    ing,  what  few  persons  will  deny,  that,  of  two  descriptions, 
3<?  either  of  passions,  manners,   or  characters,  each  of  them 
equally  well  executed,  the  one  in  prose  and  the  other  irj 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  27 

verse,  the  verse  will  be  read  a  hundred  times  where  the 
prose^IJTread  once. 

Having  thus  explained  a  few  of  my  reasons  for  writing 
in  verse,  and  why  I  have  chosen  subjects  from  common  life, 
and  endeavoured  to  bring  my  language  near  to  the  real     5 
language  of  men,  if  I  have  been  too  minute  in  pleading  my 
own  cause,  I  have  at  the  same  time  been  treating  a  subject 
of  general  interest;  and  for  this  reason  a  few  words  shall 
be  added  with  reference  solely  to  these  particular  poems, 
and  to  some  defects  which  will  probably  be  found  in  them.   10 
I  am  sensible  that  my  associations  must  have  sometimes 
been  particular  instead  of  general,  and  that,  consequently, 
giving  to  things  a  false  importance,  I  may  have  sometimes 
written  upon  unworthy  subjects;  but  I  am  less  apprehen- 
sive on  this  account,  than  that  my  language  may  frequently  J5 
have  suffered  from  those  arbitrary  connections  of  feelings 
and  ideas  with  particular  words  and  phrases,  from  which 
no  man  can  altogether  protect  himself.1     Hence  I  have  no" 
doubt,  that,  in  some  instances,  feelings,  even  of  the  ludi- 
crous, may  be  given  to  my  Readers  by  expressions  which  20 
appeared  to  me  tender  and  pathetic.     Such  faulty  expres- 
sions, were  I  convinced  they  were  faulty  at  present,  and 
that  they  must  necessarily  continue  to  be  so,  I  would  will- 
ingly take  all  reasonable  pains  to  correct.     But  it  is  dan- 
gerous to  make  these  alterations  on  the  simple  authority  of  25 
a  few  individuals,  or  even  of  certain  classes  of  men;  for 
where  the  understanding  of  an  Author  is  not  convinced,  or 
his  feelings  altered,   this  cannot  be   done  without  great 
injury  to  himself :'  for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and 
support;  and,  if  he  set  them  aside  in  one  instance,  he  may  3° 
be  induced  to  repeat  this  act  till  his  mind  shall  lose  all 


28  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

confidence  in  itself,  and  become  utterly  debilitated*'  To 
this  it  may  be  added,  that  the  Critic  ought  never  to  forget 
that  he  is  himself  exposed  to  the  same  errors  as  the  Poet, 
and,  perhaps,  in  a  much  greater  degree :  for'  there  can  be 

5  no  presumption  in  saying  of  most  readers,  that  it  is  not 
probable  they  will  be  so  well  acquainted  with  the  various, 
stages  of  meaning  through  which  words  have  passed,  or 
with  the  fickleness  or  stability  of  the  relations  of  particular 
ideas  to  each  other;  and,  above  all,  since  they  are  so  much 

10  less  interested  in  the  subject,  they  may  decide  lightly  and 
carelessly. 

Long  as  the  Reader  has  been  detained,  I  hope  he  will 
permit  me  to  caution  him  against  a  mode  of  false  criticism 
which  has  been  applied  to  Poetry,  in  which  the  language 

15  closely  resembles  that  of  life  and  nature.  Such  verses  have 
been  triumphed  over  in  parodies,  of  which  Dr.  Johnson's 
stanza  is  a  fair  specimen :  — 

I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
20  And  there  I  met  another  man 

Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand. 

Immediately  under  these  lines  let  us  place  one  of  the 
most  justly-admired  stanzas  of  the  '  Babes  in  the  Wood/  1 

These  pretty  Babes  with  hand  in  hand 
25  Went  wandering  up  and  down; 

But  never  more  they  saw  the  Man 
Approaching  from  the  Town. 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the  order  of  the 

words,   in  no  respect  differ  from  the  most  unimpassioned 

30  conversation.     There  are  words  in  both,  for  example,  'the 


PREFACE,   1800-1845.  29 

Strand/  and  'the  Town,'  connected  with  none  but  the  most 
familiar  ideas;  yet  the  one  stanza  we  admit  as  admirable, 
1  and  the  other  as  a  fair  example  of  the  superlatively  con- 
temptible. Whence  arises  this  difference?  Not  from  the 
metre,  not  from  the  language,  not  from  the  order  of  the  5 
words;  but  the  matter  expressed  in  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is 
contemptible.  The  proper  method  of  treating  trivial  and 
simple  verses,  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  would  be  a 
fair  parallelism,  is  not  to  say,  this  is  a  bad  kind  of  poetry, 
or,  this  is  not  poetry;  but,  this  wants  sense;  it  is  neither  10 
interesting  in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to  any  thing  interesting; 
the  images  neither  originate  in  that  sane  state  of  feeling 
which  arises  out  of  thought,  nor  can  excite  thought  or  feel- 
ing in  the  Reader.  This  is  the  only  sensible  manner  of 
dealing  with  such  verses.  Why  trouble  yourself  about  the  *5 
/species  till  you  have  previously  decided  upon  the  genus? 
vl  Why  take  pains  to  prove  that  an  ape  is  not  a  Newton,  when 
it  is  self-evident  that  he  is  not  a  man? 

One  request  I  must  make  of  my  reader,  which  is,  that  in 
judging  these  Poems  he  would  decide  by  his  own  feelings  20 
genuinely,  and  not  by  reflection  upon  what  will  probably 
be  the  judgment  of  others.1     How  common  is  it  to  hear  a 
person  say,  I  myself  do  not  object  to  this  style  of  compo- 
sition, or  this  or  that  expression,  but,  to  such  and  such 
classes  of  people  it  will  appear  mean  or  ludicrous !     This  25 
mode  of  criticism,  so  destructive  of  all  sound  unadulterated 
judgment,  is  almost  universal:  let  the  Reader  then  abide, 
independently,  by  his  own  feelings,  and,  if  he  finds  himself 
affected,  let  him  not  suffer  such  conjectures  to  interfere  \ 
with  his  pleasure.  3° 

If  an  Author,  by  any  single  composition,  has  impressed 


30  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

us  with  respect  for  his  talents,  it  is  useful  to  consider  this  as 

affording  a  presumption,  that  on  other  occasions  where  we 

have  been  displeased,  he,  nevertheless,  may  not  have  written 

*   ill  or  absurdly;  and  further,  to  give  him  so  much  credit  for 

5  this  one  composition  as  may  induce  us  to  review  what  has 
displeased  us,  with  more  care  than  we  should  otherwise 
have  bestowed  upon  it.  This  is  not  only  an  act  of  justice, 
but,  in  our  decisions  upon  poetry  especially,  may  conduce, 
in  a  high  degree,  to  the  improvement  of  our  own  taste : 

10  for  an  accurate  taste  in  poetry,  and  in  all  the  other  arts,  as 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  observed,  is  an  acquired  talent, 
which  can  only  be  produced  by  thought  and  a  long-contin- 
ued intercourse  with  the  best  models  of  composition.  This 
is  mentioned,  not  with  so  ridiculous  a  purpose  as  to  pre- 

J5  vent   the   most    inexperienced   Reader  from  judging   for 

himself,  (I  have  already  said  that  I  wish  him  to  judge  for 

\  himself;)  but  merely  to  temper  the  rashness  of  decision, 

and  to  suggest,  that,  if  Poetry  be  a  subject  on  which  much 

time  has  not  been  bestowed,  the  judgment  may  be  erro- 

20  neous;  and  that,  in  many  cases,  it  necessarily  will  be  so. 

Nothing  would,  I  know,  have  so  effectually  contributed 
to  further  the  end  which  I  have  in  view,  as  to  have  shown 
of  what  kind  the  pleasure  is,  and  how  that  pleasure  is  pro- 
duced, which  is  confessedly  produced  by  metrical  compo- 

25  sition  essentially  different  from  that  which  I  have  here 
endeavoured  to  recommend :  for  the  Reader  will  say  that 
he  has  been  pleased  by  such  composition;  and  what  more 
can  be  done  for  him?  The  power  of  any  art  is  limited; 
and  he  will  suspect,  that,  if  it  be  proposed  to  furnish  him 

30  with  new  friends,  that  can  be  only  upon  condition  of  his 
abandoning  his  old  friends.  Besides,  as  I  have  said,  the 


PREFACE,  1800-1845.  31 

Reader  is  himself  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which  he  has 
received  from  such  composition,  composition  to  which  he 
has  peculiarly  attached  the  endearing  name  of  Poetry;  and 
all  men  feel  an  habitual  gratitude,  and  something  of  an 
honourable  bigotry,  for  the  objects  which  have  long  con-     5 
tinued  to  please  them :  we  not  only  wish  to  be  pleased,  but  "7 
to  be  pleased  in  that  particular  way  in  which  we  have  been 
accustomed   to   be   pleased.     There    is    in  these  feelings 
enough  to  resist  a  host  of  arguments;  and  I  should  be  the 
less  able  to  combat  them  successfully,  as  I  am  willing  to   10 
allow,  that,  in  order  entirely  to  enjoy  the  Poetry  which  I 
am  recommending,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give  up  much 
of  what  is  ordinarily  enjoyed.     But,  would  my  limits  have 
permitted  me  to  point  out  how  this  pleasure  is  produced, 
many  obstacles  might  have  been  removed,  and  the  Reader  15 
assisted  in  perceiving  that  the  powers  of  language  are  not 
so  limited  as  he  may  suppose;  and  that  it  is  possible  for 
Poetry  to  give  other  enjoyments,  of  a  purer,  more  lasting, 
and  more  exquisite  nature.     This  part  of  the  subject  has 
not  been  altogether  neglected,  but  it  has  not  been  so  much  20 
my  present  aim  to  prove,  that  the  interest  excited  by  some 
other  kinds  of  poetry  is  less  vivid,  and  less  worthy  of  the 
nobler  powers  of  the  mind,  as  to  offer  reasons  for  presum- 
ing, that  if  my  purpose  were  fulfilled,  a  species  of  poetry 
would  be  produced,  which  is  genuine  poetry;  in  its  nature  25 
well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and  likewise 
important    in  the   multiplicity  and  quality   of    its   moral 
relations. 

From  what  has  been  said,   and  from  a  perusal  of  the 
Poems,    the  Reader  will  be  able  clearly  to  perceive   the  3° 


32  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

object  which  I  had  in  view:  he  will  determine  how  far  it 
has  been  attained;  and,  what  is  a  much  more  important 
question,  whether  it  be  worth  attaining:  and  upon  the 
decision  of  these  two  questions  will  rest  my  claim  to  the 
5  approbation  of  the  Public. 


APPENDIX, 

i 

See  Preface,  page  8, '  by  what  is  usually  called  Poetic  Diction ' 

1802-1845. 

PERHAPS,  as  I  have  no  right  to  expect  that  attentive 
perusal,  without  which,  confined,  as  I  have  been,  to  the 
narrow  limits  of  a  Preface,  my  meaning  cannot  be  thor- 
oughly understood,  I  am  anxiou^  to  give  an  exact  notion 
of  the  sense  in  which  the  phrase  poetic  diction  has  been  5 
used;  and  for  this  purpose,  a  few  words  shall  here  be 
added,  concerning  the  origin  and  characteristics  of  the 
phraseology,  which  I  have  condemned  under  that  name. 

The  earliest  poets  of  all  nations  generally  wrote  from 
passion  excite'd  by  real  events;  they  wrote  naturally,  and   10 
as  men:    feeling   powerfully  as  they    did,   their  language 
W^s. daring,  andjiguiative.1     In  succeeding  times,  Poets, 
and  Men  ambitious  of  the  fame  of  Poets,  perceiving  the 
influence  of  such  language,  and  desirous  of  producing  the 
same  effect  without  being  animated  by  the  same  passion,    15 
set  themselves  to  a  mechanical  adoption  of  these  figures  of 
speech,  and  made  use  of  them,  sometimes  with  propriety, 
but  much  more  frequently  applied  them  to  feelings  and 
thoughts  with  which  they  had  no  natural  connection  what- 
soever.2    A  language  was  thus  insensibly  produced,  differ-  20 
ing   materially   from   the    real   language   of   men    in    any 
situation.      The  Reader  or  Hearer  of  this  distorted  lan- 

33 


34  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

guage  found  himself  in  a  perturbed  and  unusual  state  of 
mind :  when  affected  by  the  genuine  language  of  passion 
he  had  been  in  a  perturbed  and  unusual  state  of  mind  also : 
in  both  cases  he  was  willing  that  his  common  judgment 

5  and  understanding  should  be  laid  asleep,  and  he  had  no 
instinctive  and  infallible  perception  of  the  true  to  make 
him  reject  the  false;  the  one  served  as  a  passport  for  the 
other.  The  emotion  was  in  both  cases  delightful,  and  no 
wonder  if  he  confounded  the  one  with  the  other,  and 

10  believed  them  both  to  be  produced  by  the  same,  or  similar 
causes.  Besides,  the  Poet  spake  to  him  in  the  character 
of  a  man  to  be  looked  up  to,  a  man  of  genius  and  authority. 
Thus,  and  from  a  variety  of  other  causes,  this  distorted 
language  was  received  with  admiration;  and  Poets,  it  is 

*5  probable,  who  had  before  contented  themselves  for  the 
most  part  with  misapplying  only  expressions  which  at  first 
had  been  dictated  by  real  passion,  carried  the  abuse  still 
further,  and  introduced  phrases  composed  apparently  in 
the  spirit  of  the  original  figurative  language  of  passion,  yet 

20  altogether  of  their  own  invention,  and  characterised  by 
various  degrees  of  wanton  deviation  from  good  sense  and 
Nature.1 

It  is  indeed  true,  that  the  language  of  the  earliest  Poets 
was  felt  to  differ  materially  from  ordinary  language,  because 

25  it  was  the* language  of  extraordinary  occasions;  but  it  was 
really  spoken  by  men,  language  which  the  Poet  himself 
had  uttered  when  he  had  been  affected  by  the  events  which 
he  described,  or  which  he  had  heard  uttered  by  those 
around  him.  To  this  language  it  is  probable  that  metre  of 

30  some  sort  or  other  was  early  superadded.  This  separated 
the  genuine  language  of  Poetry  still  further  from  common 


APPENDIX,   1802-1845.  35 

life,  so  that  whoever  read  or  heard  the  poems  of  these 
earliest  Poets  felt  himself  moved  in  a  way  in  which  he  had 
not  been  accustomed  to  be  moved  in  real  life,  and  by 
causes  manifestly  different  from  those  which  acted  upon 
him  in  real  life.  This  was  the  great  temptation  to  all  the  5 
corruptions  which  have  followed:  under  the  protection  of 
this  feeling  succeeding  Poets  constructed  a  phraseology 
which  had  one  thing,  it  is  true,  in  common  with  the  genu- 
ine language  of  poetry,  namely,  that  it  was  not  heard  in 
ordinary  conversation;  that  it  was  unusual.  But  the  first  10 
Poets,  as  I  have  said,  spake  a  language  which,  though 
unusual,  was  still  the  language  of  men.  This  circumstance, 
however,  was  disregarded  by  their  successors;  they  found 
that  they  could  please  by  easier  means :  they  became  proud 
of  modes  of  expression  which  they  themselves  had  invented,  15 
and  which  were  uttered  only  by  themselves.  In  process  of 
time  metre  became  a  symbol  or  promise  of  this  unusual 
language,  and  whoever  took  upon  him  to  write  in  metre, 
according  as  he  possessed  more  or  less  of  true  poetic 
genius,  introduced  less  or  more  of  this  adulterated  phrase-  20 
ology  into  his  compositions,  and  the  true  and  the  false 
were  inseparably  interwoven  until,  the  taste  of  men  becom- 
ing gradually  perverted,  this  language  was  received  as  a 
natural  language :  and  at  length  by  the  influence  of  books 
upon  men,  did  to  a  certain  degree  really  become  so.  25 
Abuses  of  this  kind  were  imported  from  one  nation  to 
another,  and  with  the  progress  of  refinement  this  diction 
became  daily  more  and  more  corrupt,  thrusting  out  of  sight 
the  plain  humanities  of  Nature  by  a  motley  masquerade  of 
tricks,  quaintnesses,  hieroglyphics,  and  enigmas,  j  3° 

It  would  not  be  uninteresting  to  point  out  the  causes  of 


36  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

the  pleasure  given  by  this  extravagant  and  absurd  diction. 
It  depends  upon  a  great  variety  of  causes,  but  upon  none, 
perhaps,  more  than  its  influence  in  impressing  a  notion  of 
the  peculiarity  and  exaltation  of  the  Poet's 'character,  and 

5  in  flattering  the  Reader's  self-love  by  bringing  him  nearer 
to  a  sympathy  with  that  character;  an  effect  which  is 
accomplished  by  unsettling  ordinary  habits  of  thinking, 
and  thus  assisting  the  Reader  to  approach  to  that  perturbed 
and  dizzy  state  of  mind  in  which  if  he  does  not  find 

10  himself,  he  imagines  that  he  is  balked  of  a  peculiar  enjoy- 
ment which  poetry  can  and  ought  to  bestow. 

The  sonnet  quoted  from  Gray,  in  the  Preface,  except 
the  lines  printed  in  Italics,  consists  of  little  else  but  this 
diction,  though  not  of  the  worst  kind;  and  indeed,  if  one 

15  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  it  is  far  too  common  in  the 
best  writers  both  ancient  and  modern.  Perhaps  in  no 
way,  by  positive  example,  could  more  easily  be  given  a 
notion  of  what  I  mean  by  the  phrase  poetic  diction  than  by 
referring  to  a  comparison  between  the  metrical  paraphrase 

20  which  we  have  of  passages  in  the  Old  and  New  Testament, 
and  those  passages  as  they  exist  in  our  common  Transla- 
tion. See  Pope's  'Messiah'  throughout;  Prior's  'Did 
sweeter  sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue,'  &c.,  &c., 
1  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, ' 

25  &c.,  &c.  ist  Corinthians,  chap.  xiii.  By  way  of  imme- 
diate example,  take  the  following  of  Dr.  Johnson :  — 


Turn  on  the  prudent  Ant  thy  heedless  eyes, 
Observe  her  labours,, Sluggard,  and  be  wise; 
No  stern  command,  no  monitory  voice, 
30  Prescribes  her  duties,  or  directs  her  choice; 


APPENDIX,   1802-1843.  37 

Yet,  timely  provident,  she  hastes  away 

To  snatch  the  blessings  of  a  plenteous  day; 

When  fruitful  Summer  loads  the  teeming  plain, 

She  crops  the  harvest,  and  she  stores  the  grain. 

How  long  shall  sloth  usurp  thy  useless  hours,  5 

Unnerve  thy  vigour,  and  enchain  thy  powers? 

While  artful  shades  thy  downy  couch  enclose, 

And  soft  solicitation  courts  repose, 

Amidst  the  drowsy  charms  of  dull  delight, 

Year  chases  year  with  unreimtted  flight,  10 

Till  Want  now  fotlowing,  fraudulent  and  slow, 

Shall  spring  to  seize  thee,  like  an  ambush'd  foe. 


From  this  hubbub  of  words  pass  to  the  original.     'Go  to 
the  Ant,  thou  Sluggard,  consider  her  ways,  and  be  wise: 
which  having  no  guide,  overseer,   or  ruler,  provideth  her  15 
meat  in  the  summer,  and  gathereth  her  food  in  the  harvest. 
How  long  wilt  thou  sleep,  O  Sluggard?     When  wilt  thou 
arise  out  of  thy  sleep?     Yet  a  little  sleep,  a  little  slumber, 
a  little  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep.     So  shall  thy  poverty 
come  as  one  that  travelleth,   and  thy  want  as  an  armed  20 
man.'      Proverbs,  chap.  vi. 

One  more  quotation,  and  I  have  done.  It  is  from 
Cowper's  Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander 
Selkirk :  — 

Religion !  what  treasure  untold  25 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word ! 

More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 

But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard,  30 

Ne'er  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 

Or  smiled  when  a  Sabbath  appeared. 


38  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

Ye  winds,  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 

Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  must  visit  no  more. 

My  Friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 
j  A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me? 
,'  O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 
\  Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

This  passage  is  quoted  as  an  instance  of  three  different 

10  styles  of  composition.  The  first  four  lines  are  poorly 
expressed;  some  Critics  would  call  the  language  prosaic; 
the  fact  is,  it  would  be  bad  prose,  so  bad,  that  it  is 
scarcely  worse  in  metre.  The  epithet  l church-going ' 
applied  to  a  bell,  and  that  by  so  chaste  a  writer  as  Cowper, 

,-  is  an  instance  of  the  strange  abuses  which  Poets  have 
introduced  into  their  language,  till  they  and  their  Readers 
take  them  as  matters  of  course,  if  they  do  not  single  them 
out  expressly  as  objects  of  admiration.  The  two  lines 
'Ne'er  sigh'd  at  the  sound,'  &c.,  are,  in  my  opinion,  an 

20  instance  of  the  language  of  passion  wrested  from  its  proper 
use,  and,  from  the  mere  circumstance  of  the  composition 
being  in  metre,  applied  upon  an  occasion  that  does  not 
justify  such  violent  expressions;  and  I  should  condemn  the 
passage,  though  perhaps  few  Readers  will  agree  with  me, 

25  as  vicious  poetic  diction.  The  last  stanza  is  throughout 
admirably  expressed :  it  would  be  equally  good  whether  in 
prose  or  verse,  except  that  the  Reader  has  an  exquisite 
pleasure  in  seeing  such  natural  language  so  naturally  con- 
nected with  metre.  The  beauty  of  this  stanza  tempts  me 

30  to  conclude  with  a  principle  which  ought  never  to  be  lost 
sight  of,  and  which  has  been  my  chief  guide  in  all  I  have 


APPENDIX,   1802-1845.  39 

said,  — namely,  that  in  works  of  imagination  and  sentiment, 
for  of  these  only  have  I  been  treating,  in  proportion  as 
ideas  and  feelings  are  valuable, (whether  the  composition 

be  in  prose  or  in  verse,  they  require  and  exact  one  and  the 
/       <prr>v.^r.sv<= 

same  language.     Metre  is  but  adventitious  to  composition,     5 

I    and  the  phraseology  for  which  that  passport  is  necessary, 
even  where  it  may  be  graceful  at  all,  will  be  little  valued' 
by  the  judicious: 


PREFACE, 

*        1815-1845. 

THE  powers  requisite  for  the  production  of  poetry  are : 
first,  those  of  Observation  and  Description, — i.e.,  the 
ability  to  observe  with  accuracy  things  as  they  are  in 
themselves,  and  with  fidelity  to  describe  them,  unmodified 

5  by  any  passion  or  feeling  existing  in  the  mind  of  the 
describer :  whether  the  things  depicted  be  actually  present 
to  the  senses,  or  have  a  place  only  in  the  memory.  This 
power,  though  indispensable  to  a  Poet,  is  one  which  he 
employs  only  in  submission  to  necessity,  and  never  for  a 

10  continuance  of  time  i  as  its  exercise  supposes  all  the  higher 
qualities  of  the  mind  to  be  passive,  and  in  a  state  of  sub- 
jection to  external  objects,  much  in  the  same  way  as  a 
translator  or  engraver  ought  to  be  to  his  original.  2ndly, 
Sensibility, — which,  the  more  exquisite  it  is,  the  wider 

J5  will  be  the  range  of  a  poet's  perceptions;  and  the  more 

will  he  be  incited  to  observe  objects,  both  as  they  exist  in 

themselves,  and  as  re-acted  upon  by  his  own  mind.     (The 

distinction  between  poetic  and  human  sensibility  has  b^en 

,  marked  in  the  character  of  the  Poet  delineated-  in  the 

20  original  preface.)  sdly,  Reflection, — which  maizes  the 
;  Poet  acquainted  with  the  value  of  actions,  images,  thoughts, 
and  feelings;  and  assists  the  sensibility  in  perceiving  their 
40 


PREFACE,   1815-1845.  41 

connection    with    each    other.      4thly,    Imagination    and 
Fancy,  —  to  modify,   to  create,   and  to  associate,     Sthly, 
Invention,  —  by   which   characters   are    composed  out  of 
materials  supplied  by  observation;  whether  of  the  Poet's 
own  heart  and  mind,  or  of  external  life  and  nature;  and    5 
such  incidents  and  situations  produced  as  are  most  impres- 
sive to  the  imagination,  and  most  fitted  to  do  justice  to 
the  characters,   sentiments,  and  passions,  which  the  Poet 
undertakes    to    illustrate.       And,    lastly,    Judgment,  —  to 
decide  how  and  where,  and  in  what  degree,  each  of  the  10 
faculties  ought  to  be  exerted;  so  that  the  less  shall  not  be 
sacrificed  to  the  greater;    nor  the  greater,    slighting  the\/ 
less,  arrogate,   to  its  own  injury,  more  than  its  due.     By 
judgment,  also,  is  determined  what  are  the  laws  and  appro- 
priate graces  of  every  species  of  composition.*  T5 

The  materials  of  Poetry,  by  these  powers  collected  and 
produced,  are  cast,  by  means  of  various  moulds,  into  divers 
forms.     The  moulds  may  be  enumerated,  and  the  forms 
specified,  in  the  following  order.1     ist,  the  Narrative,  —  . 
including  the  Epopoeia,  the  Historic  Poem,  the  Tale,  the  20 
Romance,  the  Mock-Heroic,  and,  if  the  spirit  of  Homer 
will  tolerate  such  neighbourhood,  that  dear  production  of 
our  days,  the  metrical  Novel.     Of  this  class,  the  distin- 
guishing mark  is,  that  the  Narrator,  however  liberally  his 
speaking  agents  be  introduced,  is  himself  the  source  from  25 
which  every  thing  primarily  flows.     Epic  Poets,  in  order 
that  their  mode  of  composition  may  accord  with  the  ele- 
vation  of   their  subject,    represent  themselves  as  singing 

*  As  sensibility  to  harmony  of  numbers,  and  the  power  of  producing  it, 
are  invariably  attendants  upon  the  faculties  above  specified,  nothing  has    30 
been  said  upon  those  requisites. 


42  WORDSWORTH^  PREFACES. 

from  the  inspiration  of  the  Muse,  'Anna  virumque  ca^o;' 
but  this  is  a  fiction,  in  modern  times,  of  slight  value;  the 
' Iliad'  or  the  'Paradise  Lost'  would  gain  little  in  our 
estimation  by  being  chanted.  The  other  poets  who  belong 

5  to  this  class  are  commonly  content  to_/£#  their  tale;  —  so 
that  of  the  whole  it  may  be  affirmed  that  they  neither 
require  nor  reject  the  accompaniment  of  music. 

2ndly,  The  Dramatic,  — consisting  of  Tragedy,  Historic 
Drama,    Comedy,   and    Masflpe,    in   which   the  poetjipes 

10  not  appear  at  all  in  his  own  person,  and  where  the  whole 

action  is  carried  on  by  speech  and  dialogue  of  the  agents; 

music  being  admitted  only  incidentally  and  rarely.     The 

|  Opera  may  be  placed  here,    inasmuch  as  it  proceeds  by 

dialogue;  though  depending,   to  the  degree  that  it  does, 

15  upon  music,  it  has  strong  claim  to  be  ranked  with  the 
lyrical.  The  characteristic  and  impassioned  Epistle,  of 
which  Ovid  and  Pope  have  given  examples,  considered  as 
a  species  of  monodrama,  may,  without  impropriety,  be 
placed  in  this  class. 

20  3dly,  The  Lyrical,  —  containing  the  Hymn,  the  Ode, 
the  Elegy,  the  Song,  and  the  Ballad;  in  all  which,  for  the 

I  production  of  their /////effect,  an  accompaniment  of  music 
is  indispensable. 

4thly,  The  I  dy  Ilium,  —  descriptive  chiefly  either  of  the 

25  processes  and  appearances  of  external  nature,  as  the  'Sea- 
sons '  of  Thomson;  or  of  characters,  manners,  and  senti- 
ments, as  are  Shenstone's  'Schoolmistress,'  'The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night '  of  Burns,  'The  Twa  Dogs '  of  the  same 
Author;  or  of  these  in  conjunction  with  the  appearances 

30  of  Nature,  as  most  of  the  pieces  of  Theocritus,  the  'Allegro  ' 
and  'Penseroso'  of  Milton,  Beattie's  'Minstrel,'  Gold- 


PREFACE,  1815-1845.  ^3 

smith's  ' Deserted  Village.'  'The  Epitaph,  the  Inscription, 
the  Sonnet,  most  of  the  epistles  of  poets  writing  in  their 
own  persons,  and  all  loco-descriptive  poetry,  belong  to 
this  class. 

5  thly,/ Didactic, —  the  principal  object  of  which  is  direct    5 
instruction;  jas  the  Poem  of  Lucretius,  the  'Georgics'  of 
Virgil,    'The    Fleece'    of    Dyer,    Mason's   'English   Gar- 
den,' &c. 

And,   lastly,   philosophical  Satire,   like  that  of  Horace 
and  Juvenal;  personal  an^  occasional  Satire  rarely  com-  10 
prehending  sufficient  of  the  general  in  the  individual  to 
be  dignified  with  the  name  of  poetry. 

Out  of  the  three  last  has  been  constructed  a  composite 
order  of  which  Young's  'Night  Thoughts, '   and  Cowper's 
'Task,'  are  excellent  examples.  !  It  is  deducible  from  the   J5 
above,    that   poems,   apparently  miscellaneous,    may  with 
propriety  be  arranged  either  with  reference  to  the  powers 
of  miqd pr.edauunaiti-\T\  the  production  of  them;  or  to  the 
mould  in  which  they  are  cast;  or,   lastly,  to  the  subjects  to 
which  they  relate.      From  each  of  these  considerations,  the  20 
following  Poems  have  been  divided  into  classes;1  which, 
that  the  work  may  more  obviously  correspond  with  the 
course  of  human  life,  and  for  the  sake  of  exhibiting  in  it 
the  three  requisites  of  a  legitimate  whole,  a  beginning,  a 
middle,  and  an  end,  have  been  also  arranged,  as  far  as  it  25 
was  possible,  according  to  an  order  of  time,  commencing 
with  Childhood,   and  terminating  with  did  Age,   Death, 
and  Immortality.     My  guiding  wish  was,   that  the   small 
pieces  of  which  these  volumes  consist,  thus  discriminated, 
might  be  regarded  under  a  twofold  view;  as  composing  an   3° 
entire   work   within    themselves,    a-nd  as  adjuncts  to   the  \ 


44  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

philosophical  Poem,  'The  Recluse.'  This  arrangement 
has  long  presented  itself  habitually  to  my  own  mind. 
Nevertheless,  I  should  have  preferred  to  scatter  the  con- 
tents of  these  volumes  at  random,  if  I  had  been  persuaded 

5     that,  by  the"  plan  adopted,   any  thing  material  would  be 

taken  from  the  natural  effect  of  the  pieces,  individually, 

on  the  mind  of  the  unreflecting  Reader.     I  trust  there  is 

v  a  sufficient  variety  in  each  class  to  prevent  this;  while,  for 

him  who  reads  with  reflection,  the  arrangement  will  serve 

10  as  a  commentary  unostentatiously  directing  his  attention 
to  my  purposes,  both  particular  and  general.  But,  as  I 
wish  to  guard  against  the  possibility  of  misleading  by  this 
classification,  it  is  proper  first  to  remind  the  Reader,  that 
certain  poems  are  placed  according  to  the  powers  of  mind, 

15  in  the  Author's  conception,  predominant  in  the  production 
of  them;  predominant,  which  implies  the  exertion  of  other 
faculties  in  less  degree.  Where  there  is  more  imagination 
than  fancy  in  a  poem,  it  is  placed  under  the  head  of 
imagination,  and  vice  versd\  Both  the  above  classes  might 

20  without  impropriety  have  been  enlarged  from  that  consist- 
ing of  l Poems  founded  on  the  Affections;'  as  might  this 
latter  from  those,  and  from  the  class  'proceeding  from 
Sentiment  and  Reflection.'  The  most  striking  character- 
istics of  each  piece,  mutual  illustration,  variety,  and  pro- 

25  portion,  have  governed  me  throughout. 

None  of  the  other  Classes,  except  those  of  Fancy  and 
Imagination,  require  any  particular  notice.  But  a  remark 
of  general  application  may  be  made.  All  Poets,  except 
the  dramatic,  have  been  in  the  practice  of  feigning  that 

3°  their  works  were  composed  to  the  music  of  the  harp  or 
lyre :  with  what  degree  of  affectation  this  has  been  done  in 


PREFACE,   1815-1845.  45 

modern  times,  I  leave  to  the  judicious  to  determine.     For 
my  own  part,   I  have  not  been  disposed  to  violate  proba- 
bility so  far,  or  to  make  such  a  large  demand  upon  the 
Reader's   charity.     Some  of  these   pieces  are   essentially 
Jyjrical;  and,  therefore,  cannot  have  their  due  force  with-     5 
out  a  supposed  musical  accompaniment;  but,  in  much  the 
greatest  part,  as  a  substitute  for  the  classic  lyre  or  romantic 
harp,  I  require  nothing  more  than  an  animated  or  impas-  j 
sioned  recitation,  adapted  to  the  subject.      Poems,  however 
humble  in  their  kind,  if  they  be  good  in  that  kind,  cannot  I0 
read  themselves;  the  law  of  long  syllable  and  short  must 
not  be  so  inflexible,  —  the  letter  of  metre  must  not  be  so 
impassive  to  the  spirit  of  versification,  —  as  to  deprive  the 
Reader  of  all  voluntary  power  to  modulate,  in  subordina- 
tion to  the  sense,  the  music  of  the  poem;  —  in  the  same   15 
manner  as  his  mind  is  left  at  liberty,  and  even  summoned, 
to  act  upon  its  thoughts  and   images.     But,    though  the 
accompaniment   of   a   musical    instrument    be    frequently 
dispensed  with,  the  true  Poet  does  not  therefore  abandon 
his  privilege  distinct  from  that  of  the  mere  Proseman;  20 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  bruoks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

Let  us   come   now  to  the  consideration  of  the  words 
Fancy  and  Imagination,  as  employed  in  the  classification 
of  the  following  Poems.1     'A   man,'    says  an   intelligent  25 
author,  'has  imagination  in  proportion  as  he  can  distinctly  \ 
copy  injjjpa  the  impressions  of  sense :  it  is  the   faculty.   - 
which  /w^££jwidm^_thejnjiid  the_phenomena_of  sensation.y 
A  man  has  fancy  in  proportion  as  he  can  call  up,  connect, 
or  associate,   at  pleasure,  those  internal  images  (<£avra£etv  30 


,  46  ^       %  WORDS  IVOR  TITS  PREFA  CES. 

is  to  cause  to  appear)  so  as  to  complete  ideal  representa-  "> 
tions   of   absent   objects.       Imagination  is  jthe  ^pwer  of 
\  depicting,   and  fancy  of  evoking  and  combining.      The 
imagination  is  formed  by  patient  observation;  the  fancy 

5  by  a  voluntary  activity  in  shifting  the  scenery  of  the  mind. 
The  more  accurate  the  imagination,  the  more  safely  may  a 
painter,  or  a  poet,  undertake  a  delineation,  or  a  descrip- 
tion, without  the  presence  of  the  objects  to  be  character- 
ised. The  more  versatile  the  fancy,  the  more  original  and 

10  striking  will  be  the  decorations  produced.'  — British  Syno- 
nyms discriminated,  by  W.  Taylor. 

Is  not  this  as  if  a  man  should  undertake  to  supply  an 
account  of  a  building,  and  be  so  intent  upon  what  he  had 
discovered  of  the  foundation,  as  to  conclude  his  task 

15  without  once  looking  up  at  the  superstructure?  Here,  as 
in  other  instances  throughout  the  volume,  the  judicious 
Author's  mind  is  enthralled  by  Etymology;  he  takes  up  the 
original  word  as  his  guide  and  escort,  and  too  often  does 
not  perceive  how  soon  he  becomes  its  prisoner,  without 

20  libertv  to  tread  in  any  path  but  that  to  which  it  confines 
him.  f  It  is  not  easy  to  find  out  how  imagination,  thus 
explained,  differs  from  distinct  remembrance  of  images; 
or  fancy  from  quick  and  vivid  recollection  of  them :  each 
is  nothing  more  than  a  mode  of  memory.  If  the  two 

25  words  bear  the  above  meaning  and  no  other,  what  term  is 
left  to  designate  that  faculty  of  which  the  Poet  is  'all  com- 
pact;' he  whose  eye  glances  from  earth  to  heaven,  whose 
spiritual  attributes  body  forth  what  his  pen  is  prompt  in 
turning  to  shape;  or  what  is  left  to  characterise  Fancy,  as 

30  insinuating  herself  into  the  heart  of  objects  with  creative 
activity?  Imagination,  in  the  sense  of  the  word  as  giving 


PREFACE,   1815-1845.  47 

title  to  a  class  of  the  following  Poems,  has  no  reference  to 
images  that  are  merely  a  faithful  copy,  existing  in  the 
mind,  of  absent  external  objects;  but  is  a  word  of  higher 
/  import,  denoting  operations  of  the  mind  upon  those 
I  objects  and  processes  of  creation  or  of  composition,  gov-  5 
erned  by  certain_fixed  laws.  I  proceed  to  illustrate  my 
meaning  by  instances.  A  parrot  hangs  from  the  wires  of 
his  cage  by  his  beak  or  by  his  claws;  or  a  monkey  from 
the  bough  of  a  tree  by  his  paws  or  his  tail.  Each  creature 
does  so  literally  and  actually.  In  the  first  Eclogue  of  10 
Virgil,  the  shepherd,  thinking  of  the  time  when  he  is  to 
take  leave  of  his  farm,  thus  addresses  his  goats  :• — 

Non  ego  vos  posthac  viridi  projectus  in  antro 
Dumosa  pendere  procul  de  rupe  videbo. 

half  way  down  15 

Hangs  one  who  gathers  samphire, 

is  the  well-known  expression  of  Shakspeare,  delineating 
an  ordinary  image  upon  the  cliffs  of  Dover.  In  these  two 
instances  is  a  slight  exertion  of  the  faculty  which  I  denom- 
inate imagination,  in  the  use  of  one  word:  neither  the  20 
goats  nor  the  samphire-gatherer  do  literally  hang,  as  does 
the  parrot  or  the  monkey;  but,  presenting  to  the  senses 
something  of  such  an  appearance,  the  mind  in  its  activity, 
for  its  own  gratification,  contemplates  them  as  hanging,  j 

As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried  25 

Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  wind; 

Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 

Of  Ternate  or  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 

Their  spicy  drugs;   they  on  the  trading  flood 

Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape  3° 

Ply,  stemming  nightly  toward  the  Pole;   so  seemed 

Far  off  the  flying  Fiend. 


48  WORDSWORTH*  S  PREFACES. 

Here  is  the  full  strength  of  the  imagination  involved 
in  the  word  hangs,  and  exerted  upon  the  whole  image : 
First,  the  fleet,  an  aggregate  of  many  ships,  is  represented 
as  one  mighty  person,  whose  track,  we  know  and  feel,  is 

5  upon  the  waters;  but,  taking  advantage  of  its  appearance 
to  the  senses,  the  Poet  dares  to  represent  it  as  hanging  in 
the  clouds,  both  for  the  gratification  of  the  mind  in  con- 
templating the  image  itself,  and  in  reference  to  the  motion 
and  appearance  of  the  sublime  objects  to  which  it  is 

10  compared. 

From  impressions  of  sight  we  will  pass  to  those  of  sound; 
which,  as  they  must  necessarily  be  of  a  less  definite  char- 
acter, shall  be  selected  from  these  volumes : 

Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove  broods; 
15  of  the  same  bird, 

His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 
Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze; 
O,  Cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

20  The  stock-dove  is  said  to  coo,  a  sound  well  imitating  the 
note  of  the  bird;  but,  by  the  intervention  of  the  metaphor 
broods,  the  affections  are  called  in  by  the  imagination  to 
assist  in  marking  the  manner  in  which  the  bird  reiterates 
and  prolongs  her  soft  note,  as  if  herself  delighting  to 

25  listen  to  it,  ana  participating  of  a  still  and  quiet  satisfac- 
tion, like  that  which  may  be  supposed  inseparable  from 
the  continuous  process  of  incubation.  'His  voice  was 
buried  among  the  trees,'  a  metaphor  expressing  the  love 
of  seclusion  by  which  this  Bird  is  marked;  and  character- 

30  ising  its  note  as  not  partaking  of  the  shrill  and  the  pierc- 


PREFACE,   1815-1845.  49 

ing,  and  therefore  more  easily  deadened  by  the  intervening 
shade;  yet  a  note  so  peculiar  and  withal  so  pleasing,  that 
the  breeze,  gifted  with  that  love  of  the  sound  which  the 
Poet  feels,  penetrates  the  shades  in  which  it  is  entombed, 
and  conveys  it  to  the  ear  of  the  listener.  5 

Shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

This  concise  interrogation  characterises  the  seeming 
ubiquity  of  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo,  and  dispossesses  the 
creature  almost  of  a  corporeal  existence;  the  Imagination  10 
being  tempted  to  this  exertion  of  her  power  by  a  conscious- 
ness in  the  memory  that  the  cuckoo  is  almost  perpetually 
heard  throughout  the  season  of  spring,  but  seldom  becomes 
an  object  of  sight. 

Thus   far  of    images   independent   of   each    other   and  X5 
immediately  endowed  by  the  mind  with  properties  that  do 
not  inhere  in  thern^  upon  an  incitement  from  properties 
and    qualities   the    existence   of    which   is   inherent   and 
obvious.     These  processes  of  imagination-are  carried  on 
either  by  conferring  additional  properties  upon  an  object,   20 
or   abstracting   from    it  some  of   those  which  it  actually 
possesses,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  re-act  upon  the  mind 
which  hath  performed  the  process,  like  a  new  existence. 

I  pass  from  thejmagination  acting  upon  an  individual 
image  to  a  consideration  of  the  same  faculty  employed  25 
upon  images  in  a  conjunction  by  which  they  modify  each 
other.  The  Reader  has  already  had  a  fine  instance  before 
him  in  the  passage  quoted  from  Virgil,  where  the  appar- 
ently perilous  situation  of  the  goat,  hanging  upon  the 
shaggy  precipice,  is  contrasted  with  that  of  the  shepherd  3° 


50  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

contemplating  it  from  the  seclusion  of  the  cavern  in  which 
he  lies  stretched  at  ease  and  in  security.  Take  these 
images  separately,  and  how  unaffecting  the  picture  com- 
pared with  that  produced  by  their  being  thus  connected 
5  with,  and  opposed  to,  each  other ! 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence, 
Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy 
By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence, 
10  So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense, 

Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  which  on  a  shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  himself. 

Such  seemed  this  Man;  not  all  alive  or  dead 
Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  extreme  old  age. 

j-  Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  Man  stood, 

That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call, 
And  moveth  altogether  if  it  move  at  all. 

|  In  these  images,  the  conferring,  the  abstracting,  and  the 
modifying  powers  of  the  Imagination,  immediately  and 

20  mediately  acting,  are  all  brought  into  conjunction.  The 
stone  is  endowed  with  something  of  the  power  of  life  to 
approximate  it  to  the  sea-beast;  and  the  sea-beast  stripped 
of  some  of  its  vital  qualities  to  assimilate  it  to  the  stone; 
which  intermediate  image  is  thus  treated  for  the  purpose 

25  of  bringing  the  original  image,  that  of  the  stone,  to  a 
nearer  resemblance  to  the  figure  and  condition  of  the  aged 
Man;  who  is  divested  of  so  much  of  the  indications  of  life 
and  motion  as  to  bring  him  to  the  point  where  the  two 

|     objects  unite   and   coalesce   in   just   comparison.      After 

3°  what  has  been  said,  the  image  of  the  cloud  need  not  be 
commented  upon. 


PREFACE,   1813-1843.  51 

Thus  far  of  an  endowing  or  modifying  power :  but  the 
Imagination  also  shapes  and  creates;  and  how?  By 
innumerable  processes;  and  in  none  does  it  more  delight 
than  in  that  of  consolidating-jiumbers  into  unity,  and 
dissolving  and  separating  unity  into  number,  —  alterna-  5 
tions  proceeding  from,  and  governed  by,  a  sublime  con- 
sciousness of  the  soul  in  her  own  mighty  and  almost  divine 
powers.  Recur  to  the  passage  already  cited  from  Milton. 
When  the  compact  Fleet,  as  one  Person,  has  been  intro- 
duced 'Sailing  from  Bengala. '  'They, '  i.e.  the  'merchants, '  10 
representing  the  fleet  resolved  into  a  multitude  of  ships, 
'ply'  their  voyage  towards  the  extremities  of  the  earth: 
'So'  (referring  to  the  word  'As'  in  the  commencement) 
'seemed  the  flying  Fiend;'  the  image  of  his  person  acting 
to  recombine  the  multitude  of  ships  into  one  body,  — the  15 
point  from  which  the  comparison  set  out.  'So  seemed,' 
and  to  whom  seemed?  To  the  heavenly  Muse  who  dictates 
the  poem,  to  the  eye  of  the  Poet's  mind,  and  to  that  of  the 
Reader,  present  at  one  moment  in  the  wide  Ethiopian, 
and  the  next  in  the  solitudes,  then  first  broken  in  upon,  of  20 
the  infernal  regions ! 

Modo  me  Thebis,  modo  ponit  Athenis. 

Here  again  this  mighty  Poet,  —  speaking  of  the  Messiah 
going  forth  to  expel  from  heaven  the  rebellious  angels, 

Attended  by  ten  thousand  thousand  Saints  25 

He  onward  came  :  far  off  his  coming  shone,  — 

the  retinue  of  Saints,  and  the  Person  of  the  Messiah  him- 
self, lost  almost  and  merged  in  the  splendour  of  that 
indefinite  abstraction  'His  coming! ' 


52  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

As  I  do  not  mean  here  to  treat  this  subject  further  than 
to  throw  some  light  upon  the  present  Volumes,  and  espe- 
cially upon  one  division  of  them,  I  shall  spare  myself  and 
the  Reader  the  trouble  of  considering  the  Imagination  as 

5  it  deals  with  thoughts  and  sentiments,  as  it  regulates  the 
composition  of  characters,  and  determines  the  course  of 
actions :  I  will  not  consider  it  (more  than  I  have  already 
done  by  implication)  as  that  power  which,  in  the  language 
of  one  of  my  most  esteemed  Friends,  '  draws  all  things  to 

10  one;  which  makes  things  animate  or  inanimate,  beings 
with  their  attributes,  subjects  with  their  accessaries,  take 
one  colour  and  serve  to  one  effect.'*  The  grand  store- 
houses of  enthusiastic  and  meditative  Imagination,  of 
poetical,  as  contradistinguished  from  human  and  dramatic 

15  Imagination,  are  the  prophetic  and  lyrical  parts  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  and  the  works  of  Milton;  to  which  I 
cannot  forbear  to  add  those  of  Spenser.  I  select  these 
writers  in  preference  to  those  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome, 
because  the  anthropomorphitism  of  the  Pagan  religion 

20  subjected  the  minds  of  the  greatest  poets  in  those  countries 
too  much  to  the  bondage  of  definite  form;  from  which  the 
Hebrews  were  preserved  by  their  abhorrence  of  idolatry. 
Thi§  abhorrence  was  almost  as  strong  in  our  great  epic  Poet, 
both  from  circumstances  of  his  life,  and  from  the  constitu- 

25  tion  of  his  mind.  However  imbued  the  surface  might  be  with 
classical  literature,  he  was  a  Hebrew  in  soul;  and  all  things 
tended  in  him  towards  the  sublime.  Spenser,  of  a  gentler 
nature,  maintained  his  freedom  by  aid  of  his  allegorical 
spirit,  at  one  time  inciting  him  to  create  persons  out  of 

30  abstractions;  and,  at  another,  by  a  superior  effort  of  ge- 

*  Charles  Lamb  upon  the  genius  of  Hogarth. 


PREFACE,   1815-1845.  53 

nius,  to  give  the  universality  and  permanence  of  abstractions 
to  his  human  beings,  by  means  of  attributes  and  emblems 
that  belong  to  the  highest  moral  truths  and  the  purest  sen- 
sations, —  of  which  his  character  of  Una  is  a  glorious 
example.  Of  the  human  and  dramatic  Imagination  the  5 
works  of  Shakspeare  are  an  inexhaustible  source. 

I  tax  not  you,  ye  Elements,  with  unkindness, 

I  never  gave  you  kingdoms,  calPd  you  Daughters ! 

And  if,  bearing  in  mind  the  many  Poets  distinguished 
by  this  prime  quality,  whose  names  I  omit  to  mention;  yet  10 
justified  by  recollection  of  the  insults  which  the  ignorant, 
the  incapable  and  the  presumptuous,   have  heaped  upon 
these  and  my  other  writings,  I  may  be  permitted  to  antici- 
pate the  judgment  of  posterity  upon  myself,  I  shall  declare 
(censurable,   I  grant,    if  the  notoriety  of  the  fact  above  15 
stated  does  not  justify  me)/  that  I  have   given   in   these 
I  unfavourable  times,  evidence  of  exertions  of  this  faculty 
upon  its  worthiest  objects,  the  external  universe,  the  moral 
and  religious  sentiments  of  Man,  his  natural  affections,  and 
his  acquired  passions;  which  have  the  same  ennobling  ten-  20 
dency  as  the  productions  of  men,  in  this  kind,  worthy  to 
be  holden  in  undying  remembrance. 

To  the  mode  in  which  Fancy  has  already  been  character- 
1  ised  as  the  power  of  evoking  and  combining,  or,   as  my 
'  friend  Mr.  Coleridge  has  styled  it,   'the   aggregative  and  25 
.    associative  power,'  my  objection  is  only  that  the  definition 
'    is  top  general.     To  aggregate  and  to  associate,  to  evoke 
and  to  combine,  belong  as  well  to  the  Imagination  as  to 
the  Fancy;  but  either  the  materials  evoked  and  combined 
are  different;  or  they  are  brought  together  under  a  differ-   3° 


54  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

ent  law,  and  for  a  different  purpose.  Fancy  does  not 
require  that  the  materials  which  she  makes  use  of  should 
be  susceptible  of  change  in  their  constitution,  from  her 
touch;  and,  where  they  admit  of  modification,  it  is  enough 
5  for  her  purpose  if  it  be  slight,  limited,  and  evanescent. 
Directly  the  reverse  of  these,  are  the  desires  and  demands 
of  the  Imagination.  She  recoils  from  every  thing  but  the 
plastic,  the  pliant,  and  the  indefinite.  She  leaves  it  to 
Fancy  to  describe  Queen  Mab  as  coming, 

10  In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 

On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman. 

Having  to  speak  of  stature,  she  does  not  tell  you  that  her 

gigantic  Angel  was  as  tall  as  Pompey's  Pillar;  much  less 

that  he  was  twelve  cubits,  or  twelve  hundred  cubits  high; 

15  or  that  his  dimensions  equalled  those  of  Teneriffe  or  Atlas; 

—  because  these,  and  if  they  were  a  million  times  as  high 
it  would  be  the  same,   are  bounded:  The  expression  is, 
' His  stature  reached  the  sky !'  the  illimitable  firmament! 

—  When  the  Imagination  frames  a  comparison,  if  it  does 
20  not  strike  on  the  first  presentation,  a  sense  of  the  truth  of 

the  likeness,  from  the  moment  that  it  is  perceived,  grows 

—  and  continues  to  grow  —  upon  the  mind;  the  resem- 
blance depending  less  upon  outline  of  form  and  feature, 
than   upon    expression   and  effect;  less  upon  casual  and 

25  outstanding,  than  upon  inherent  and  internal,  properties : 
moreover,  the  images  invariably  modify  each  other.  —  The 
law  under  which  the  processes  of  Fancy  are  carried  on  is  as 
capricious  as  the  accidents  of  things,  and  the  effects  are 
|  surprising,  playful,  ludicrous,  amusing,  tender,  or  pathetic, 

3<i  as  the  objects  happen  to  be  appositely  produced  or  fortu- 


PREFACE,   1815-1845.  55 

nately  combined.     Fancy  depends  upon  the  rapidityand 
profusion  with  which  she  scatters  her  thoughts  and  images; 
trusting   that   their  number,  and  the  felicity  with  which 
they  are  linked  together,  will  make  amends  for  the  want  of 
individual  value :  or  she  prides  herself  upon  the  curious    5 
subtilty  and  the  successful  elaboration  with  which  she  can 
detect  their  lurking  affinities.1     If  she  can  win  you  over  to 
her  purpose,  and  impart  to  you  her  feelings,  she  cares  not 
how  unstable  or  transitory  may  be  her  influence,  knowing 
that  it  will  not   be  out  of  her   power  to  resume  it  upon  10 
an  apt  occasion.  I  But  the  Imagination  is  conscious  of  an     \ 
indestructible  dominion;  |— the  Soul  may   fall  away  from 
it,  not  being  able  to  sustain  its  grandeur;   but,  if  once  felt 
and  acknowledged,  by  no  act  of  any  other  faculty  of  the 
mind  can  it  be  relaxed,  impaired,  or  diminished.  -£  Fancy   15 
is  given  to  quicken  and  to  beguile  the   temporal  \part  of 
our  nature,  Imagination  to  incite  and  to   support  the  eter-., 
nal.  — \  Yet  is  it  not  the  less  true  that  Fancy,  as  she  is  an 
active,  is  also,  under  her  own  laws  and  in  her  own  spirit, 
a   creative   faculty.     In  what  manner   Fancy    ambitiously  20 
aims  at  a  rivalship  with    Imagination,    and    Imagination 
stoops  to  work  with  materials  of    Fancy,    might  be  illus- 
trated   from    the    compositions    of    all    eloquent    writers, 
whether  in  prose  or  verse;  and  chiefly  from  those   of  our 
own  Country.     Scarcely  a  -page  of  the  impassioned  parts  of  25 
Bishop  Taylor's  Works  can  be  opened  that  shall  not  afford 
examples.  —  Referring  the  Reader   to    those    inestimable 
volumes,    I  will    content   myself   with   placing  a    conceit 
(ascribed  to  Lord  Chesterfield)  in  contrast  with  a  passage 
from  the  ' Paradise  Lost:'  —  3° 


56  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES 

The  dews  of  the  evening  most  carefully  shun, 
They  are  the  tears  of  the  sky  for  the  loss  of  the  sun. 

After    the    transgression    of    Adam,    Milton,    with    other 
appearances  of  sympathising  Nature,  thus  marks  the  imme- 
5    diate  consequence, 

Sky  lowered,  and,  muttering  thunder,  some  sad  drops 
Wept  at  completion  of  the  mortal  sin. 

The  associating  link  is  the  same  in  each  instance :  Dew 
and  rain,  not  distinguishable  from  the  liquid  substance  of 

10  tears,  are  employed  as  indications  of  sorrow.     A  flash  of 

surprise  is  the  effect  in  the  former  case;  a  flash  of  surprise, 

I  and  nothing  more;  for  the  nature  of  things  dqesjiot  sus- 

tam  the  combination.     In  the  latter,  the  effects  from  the 

act,   of  which   there   is  this  immediate  consequence  and 

15  visible  sign,  are  so  momentous,  that  the  mind  acknowl- 
edges the  justice  and  reasonableness  of  the  sympathy  in 
nature  so  manifested;  and  the  sky  weeps  drops  of  water 
as  if  with  human  eyes,  as  '  Earth  had  before  trembled  from 
her  entrails,  and  Nature  given  a  second  groan.' 

20  Finally,  I  will  refer  to  Cotton/s_l£)de  upon  Winter,'  an 
admirable  composition,  though  stained  with  some  pecu- 
liarities of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  for  a  general  illus- 
tration of  the  characteristics^  Fancy.  The  middle  part 
of  this  ode  contains  a  most  lively  description  of  the 

25  entrance  of  Winter,  with  his  retinue,  as  'A  palsied  king/ 
and  yet  a  military  monarch,  — advancing  for  conquest  with 
his  army;  the  several  bodies  of  which,  and  their  arms  and 
equipments,  are  described  with  a  rapidity  of  detail,  and  a 
profusion  of  fanciful  comparisons,  which  indicate  on  the 


PREFACE,   1815-1845.  57 

part  of  the  poet  extreme  activity  of  intellect,  and  a  corre- 
spondent hurry  of  delightful  feeling.  Winter  retires  from 
the  foe  into  his  fortress,  where 


a  magazine 

Of  sovereign  juice  is  cellared  in; 
Liquor  that  will  the  siege  maintain 
Should  Phoebus  ne'er  return  again. 

Though  myself  a  water-drinker,  I  cannot  resist  the  pleasure 
of    transcribing   what   follows,    as  an   instance    still   more 
happy  of  Fancy  employed  in  the  treatment  of  feeling  than,    10 
in  its  preceding  passages,  the  Poem  supplies  of  her  man- 
agement of  forms. 

'Tis  that,  that  gives  the  poet  rage, 

And  thaws  the  gelly'd  blood  of  age; 

Matures  the  young,  restores  the  old,  15 

And  makes  the  fainting  coward  bold. 

It  lays  the  careful  head  to  rest, 
Calms  palpitations  in  the  breast, 
Renders  our  lives'  misfortune  sweet; 

Then  let  the  chill  Sirocco  blow,  20 

And  gird  us  round  with  hills  of  snow, 

Or  else  go  whistle  to  the  shore, 

And  make  the  hollow  mountains  roar, 

Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 

Careless,  and  crowned  with  mirth  and  wit,  25 

Where,  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home, 

Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam. 

We'll  think  of  all  the  Friends  we  know, 

And  drink  to  all  worth  drinking  to; 

When  having  drunk  all  thine  and  mine,  3° 

We  rather  shall  want  healths  than  wine. 


58  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

But  where  Friends  fail  us,  we'll  supply 
Our  friendships  with  our  charity; 
Men  that  remote  in  sorrows  live, 
Shall  by  our  lusty  brimmers  thrive. 

5  We'll  drink  the  wanting  into  wealth, 

And  those  that  languish  into  health, 
The  afflicted  into  joy;   th' opprest 
Into  security  and  rest. 

The  worthy  in  disgrace  shall  find 
I0  Favour  return  again  more  kind, 

And  in  restraint  who  stifled  lie, 
Shall  taste  the  air  of  liberty. 

The  brave  shall  triumph  in  success, 
The  lovers  shall  have  mistresses, 
i^  Poor  unregarded  Virtue,  praise, 

And  the  neglected  Poet,  bays. 

Thus  shall  our  healths  do  others  good, 
Whilst  we  ourselves  do  all  we  would; 
For,  freed  from  envy  and  from  care, 
20  What  would  we  be  but  what  we  are? 

When  I  sate  down  to  write  this  Preface,  it  was  my  inten- 
tion to  have  made  it  more  comprehensive;  but,  thinking 
that  I  ought  rather  to  apologise  for  detaining  the  reader 
so  long,  I  will  here  conclude. 


\ 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  PREFACE, 

1815-1845 

'  WITH  the  young  of  both  sexes,  Poetry  is,  like  love, 
a  passion;  but,  for  much  the  greater  part  of  those  who 
have  been  proud  of  its  power  over  their  minds,  a  necessity 
soon  arises  of  breaking  the  pleasing  bondage ;  or  it  relaxes 
of  itself;  —  the  thoughts  being  occupied  in  domestic  cares,  5 
or  the  time  engrossed  by  business.  Poetry  then  becomes 
only  an  occasional  recreation;  while  to  those  whose  exist- 
ence passes  away  in  a  course  of  fashionable  pleasure,  it  is 
a  species  of  luxurious  amusement.  In  middle  and  declin- 
ing age,  a  scattered  number  of  serious  persons  resort  to  10 
poetry,  as  to  religion,  for  a  protection  against  the  'pressure 
of  trivial  employments,  and  as  a  consolation  for  the  afflic- 
tions of  life.1  And,  lastly,  there  are  many,  who,  having 
been  enamoured  of  this  art  in  their  youth,  have  found 
leisure,  after  youth  was  spent,  to  cultivate  general  litera-  15 
ture;  in  which  poetry  has  continued  to  be  comprehended 
as  a  study? 

Into  the  above  classes  the  Readers  of  poetry  may  be 
divided;  Critics  abound  in  them  all;  but  from  the  last 
only   can   opinions   be   collected  of  absolute  value,   and  2° 
worthy  to  be  depended  upon,  as  prophetic  of  the  destiny 
of  a  new  work.     The  young,  who  in  nothing  can  escape 

59 


60  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

delusion,  are  ,es£.ecially  subject  to  it  in  their  intercourse 
with  Poetry.  VTJie  cause,  not  so  obvious  as  the  fact  is 
unquestionable,  is  the  same  as  that  from  which  erroneous 
judgments  in  this  art,  in  the  minds  of  men  of  all  ages, 

5  chiefly  proceed;  but  upon  Youth  it  operates  with  peculiar 
force.  |The  appropriate  business  of  poetry,  (which,  never- 
theless, ngenuine,  is  as  permanent  as  pure  science,)  her 
appropriate  employment,  her  privilege  and  her  duty,  is  to 
treat  of  things  not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  appear;  not  as 

10  they  exist  in  themselves,  but  as  they  seem  to  exist  to  the 
senses,  and  to  the  passions]  What  a  world  of  delusion  does 
this  acknowledged  obligation  prepare  for  the  inexperi- 
enced! what  temptations  to  go  astray  are  here  held  forth 
for  them  whose  thoughts  have  been  little  disciplined  by 

1S  the  understanding,  and  whose  feelings  revolt  from  the 
sway  of  reason !  —  When  a  juvenile  Reader  is  in  the  height 
of  his  rapture  with  some  vicious  passage,  should  experience 
throw  in  doubts,  or  common-sense  suggest  suspicions,  a 
lurking  consciousness  that  the  realities  of  the  Muse  are  but 

20  shows,  and  that  her  liveliest  excitements  are  raised  by 
transient  shocks  of  conflicting  feeling  and  successive 
assemblages  of  contradictory  thoughts  —  is  ever  at  hand  to 
justify  extravagance,  and  to  sanction  absurdity.  But,  it 
may  be  asked,  as  these  illusions  are  unavoidable,  and,  no 

25  doubt,  eminently  useful  to  the  mind  as  a  process,  what 
good  can  be  gained  by  making  observations,  the  tendency 
of  which  is  to  diminish  the  confidence  of  youth  in  its 
feelings,  and  thus  to  abridge  its  innocent  and  even  profit- 
able pleasures?  The  reproach  implied  in  the  question 

3°  could  not  be  warded  off,  if  Youth  were  incapable  of  being 
delighted  with  what  is  truly  excellent;1  or,  if  these  errors 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.       61 

always  terminated  of  themselves  in  due  season.  But,  with 
the  majority,  though  their  force  be  abated,  they  continue 
through  life/^  MXDteover,  the  fire  of  youth  is  too  vivacious 
an  element  to  be  extinguished  or  damped  by  a  philo- 
sophical remark;  and,  while  there  is  no  danger  that  what  5 
has  been  said  will  be  injurious  or  painful  to  the  ardent 
and  the  confident,  it  may  prove  beneficial  to  those  who, 
being  enthusiastic,  are,  at  the  same  time,  modest  and 
ingenious.  The  intimaton  may  unite  with  their  own  mis- 
givings to  regulate  their  sensibility,  and  to  bring  in,  10 
sooner  than  it  would  otherwise  have  arrived,  a  more 
discreet  and  sound  judgment. 

If  it  should  excite  wonder  that  men  of  ability,  in  later 
life,  whose  understandings  have  been  rendered   acute  by 
practice  in  affairs,  should  be  so  easily  and  so  far  imposed  15 
upon  when  they  happen  to  take  up  a  new  work  in  verse, 
this  appears  to  be  the  cause;  —  that,  having  discontinued    I) 
their  attention  to  poetry,  whatever  progress  may  have  been 
made  in  other  departments  of  knowledge,  they  have  not, 
as  to  this  art,  advanced  in  true  discernment  beyond  the  20 
age  of  youth.     If,  then,    a  new  poem  fall  in  their  way, 
whose    attractions   are    of    that   kind   which   would   have 
enraptured  them  during  the  heat  of  youth,   the  judgment 
not  being  improved  to  a  degree  that  they  shall  be  dis- 
gusted, they  are  dazzled;  and  prize  and  cherish  the  faults  25 
for  having  had  power  to  make   the  present  time  vanish 
before  them,  and  to  throw  the  mind  back,  as  by  enchant- 
ment,  into  the  happiest   season  of   life.1     As  they  read, 
powers  seem  to  be  revived,  passions  are  regenerated,  and 
pleasures  restored.     The  Book  was  probably  taken  up  after  3° 
an  escape  from  the  burden  of  business,  and  with  a  wish  to 


62  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

forget    the    world,    and   all    its   vexations   and  anxieties. 
Having   obtained    this    wish,    and    so    much   more,    it    is 
natural  that  they  should  make  report  as  they  have  felt, 
v  If  Men  of  mature  age,  through  want  of  practice,  be  thus 

5  easily  beguiled  into  admiration  of  absurdities,  extrava- 
gancies, and  misplaced  ornaments,  thinking  it  proper  that 
their  understandings  should  enjoy  a  holiday,  while  they 
are  unbending  their  minds  with  verse,  it  may  be  expected 
that  such  Readers  will  resemble  their  former  selves  also  in 

10  strength  of  prejudice,  and  an  inaptitude  to  be  moved  by 
the  unostentatious  beauties  of  a  pure  style.1  In  the  higher 
poetry,  an  enlightened  Critic  chiefly  looks  for  a  reflection 
of  the  wisdom  of  the  heart  and  the  grandeur  of  the  imagi- 
nation.2 Wherever  these  appear,  simplicity  accompanies 
them;  Magnificence  herself,  when  legitimate,  depending 
upon  a  simplicity  of  her  own,  to  regulate  her  ornaments.3 
But  it  is  a  well-known  property  of  human  nature,  that  our 
estimates  are  ever  governed  by  comparisons,  of  which  we 
are  conscious  with  various  degrees  of  distinctness.  Is  it 

20  not,  then,  inevitable  (confining  these  observations  to  the 
effects  of  style  merely)  that  an  eye,  accustomed  to  the 
glaring  hues  of  diction  by  which  such  Readers  are  caught 
and  excited,  will  for  the  most  part  be  rather  repelled  than 
attracted  by  an  original  Work,  the  colouring  of  which  is 

25  disposed  according  to  a  pure  and  refined  scheme  of  har- 
mony?4 -It  is  in  the  fine  arts  as  in  the  affairs  of  life,  no 
man  can  serve  (i.e.  obey  with  zeal  and  fidelity)  two 
Masters. 

As  Poetry  is  most  just  to  its  own  divine  origin  when  it 

30  administers  the  comforts  and  breathes  the  spirit  of  relig- 
ion,5 they  who  have  learned  to  perceive  this  truth,  and 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1813-1843.       63 

who  betake  themselves  to  reading  verse  for  sacred  purposes, 
must  be  preserved  from  numerous  illusions  to  which  the 
two  Classes  of  Readers,  whom  we  have  been  considering,  > 
are  liable.  But,  as  the  mind  grows  serious  from  the  weight 
of  life,  the  range  of  its  passions  is  contracted  accordingly; 
and  its  sympathies  become  so  exclusive,  that  many  species 
of  high  excellence  wholly  escape,  or  but  languidly  excite 
its  notice.  Besides,  men  who  read  from  religious  or  moral 
inclinations,  even  when  the  subject  is  of  that  kind  which 
they  approve,  are  beset  with  misconceptions  and  mistakes  10 
peculiar  to  themselves.  Attaching,  so  much  importance  to 
the  truths  which  interest  them,  they  are  prone  to  over-rate 
the  Authors  by  whom  those  truths  are  expressed  and 
enforced.  They  come  prepared  to  impart  so  much  pas- 
sion to  the  Poet's  language,  that  they  remain  unconscious  15 
how  little,  in  fact,  they  receive  from  it.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  religious  faith  is  to  him  who  holds  it  so  momentous 
a  thing,  and  error  appears  to  be  attended  with  such  tre- 
mendous consequences,  that,  H  opinions  touching  upon 
religion  occur  which  the  Reader  condemns,  he  not  only  20 
cannot  sympathise  with  them,  however  animated  the  expres- 
sion, but  there  is,  for  the  most  part,  an  end  put  to  all 
satisfaction  and  enjoyment.  Love,  if  it  before  existed,  is 
converted  into  dislike;  and  the  heart  of  the  Reader  is  set 
against  the  Author  and  his  book. — To  these  excesses,  25 
they,  who  from  their  professions  ought  to  be  the  most 
guarded  against  them,  are  perhaps  the  most  liable;  I  mean 
those  sects  whose  religion,  being  from  the  calculating 
understanding,  is  cold  and  formal.  For  when  Christianity, 
the  religion  of  humility,  is  founded  upon  the  proudest  30 
faculty  of  our  nature,  what  can  be  expected  but  contradic- 


64  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

tions?  Accordingly,  believers  of  this  cast  are  at  one  time 
contemptuous;  at  another,  being  troubled,  as  they  are  and 
must  be,  with  inward  misgivings,  they  are  jealous  and 
suspicious;  —  and  at  all  seasons,  they  are 'under  tempta- 

5  tion  to  supply,  by  the  heat  with  which  they  defend  their 
tenets,  the  animation  which  is  wanting  to  the  constitution 
of  the  religion  itself. 

Faith  was  given  to  man  that  his  affections,  detached  from 
the  treasures  of   time,  might  be   inclined  to  settle  upon 

10  those  of  eternity :  —  the  elevation  of  his  nature,  which  this 
habit  produces  on  earth,  being  to  him  a  resumptive  evi- 
dence of  a  future  state  of  existence;  and  giving  him  a  title 
to  partake  of  its  holiness.  The  religious  man  values  what 
he  sees  chiefly  as  an  l  imperfect  shadowing  forth  '  of  what 

!-  he  is  incapable  of  seeing.  The  concerns  of  religion  refer  to 
indefinite  objects,  and  are  too  weighty  for  the  mind  to 
support  them  without  relieving  itself  by  resting  a  great 
part  of  the  burthen  upon  words  and  symbols.  The  com- 
merce between  Man  and  his  Maker  cannot  be  carried  on 

20  but  by  a  process  where  much  is  represented  in  little,  and 
the  Infinite  Being  accommodates  himself  to  a  finite  capac- 
ity. In  all  this  may  be  perceived  the  affinity  between 
religion  and  poetry;  between  religion  —  making  up  the 
deficiencies  of  reason  by  faith;  and  poetry  —  passionate 

25  for  the  instruction  of  reason;  between  religion  —  whose 
element  is  infinitude,  and  whose  ultimate  trust  is  the 
supreme  of  things,  submitting  herself  to  circumscription, 
and  reconciled  to  substitutions;  and  poetry  —  ethereal  and 
transcendent,  yet  incapable  to  sustain  her  existence  without 

30  sensuous  incarnation.     In  this  community  of  nature  may 
***be  perceived  also  the  lurking  incitements  of  kindred  error; 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.      65 

—  so.  th^t  we  shall  find  that  no  poetry  has   been  more 
subject  to  distortion,  than  that  species,  the  argument  and 
scope  of  which  is  religious;  and  no  lovers  of  the  art  have 
gone  farther  astray  than  the  pious  and  the  devout. 

Whither  then  shall  we  turn  for  that  union  of  qualifica-     5 
tions  which  must  necessarily  exist  before  the  decisions  of 
a  critic  can  be  of  absolute  value  ?     For  a  mind  at  once 
poetical  and  philosophical;  for  a  critic  whose  affections  are 
as   free   and   kindly  as  the  spirit  of  society,   and  whose 
understanding  is  severe  as  that  of  dispassionate  govern-   10 
ment?     Where  are  we  to  look  for  that  initiatory  composure 
of  mind  which  no  selfishness  can  disturb?     For  a  natural 
sensibility  that  has  been  tutored  into  correctness  without 
losing  anything  of  its  quickness;  and  for  active  faculties, 
capable   of  answering  the   demands  which  an  Author  of   15 
original    imagination   shall   make  upon  them,    associated 
with  a  judgment  that  cannot  be  duped  into  admiration  by 
aught  that  is  unworthy  of   it ?— f among  those   and  those 
only,   who,    never  having  suffered  their  youthful  love  of 
poetry  to  remit  much  of  its  force,    have   applied  to  the  ?0 
consideration  of  the  laws  of  this  art  the  best  power  of  their 
understandings.     At  the  same  time  it  must  be  observed 

—  that,    as   this    Class  comprehends   the   only   judgments 
which  are  trustworthy,  so  does  it  include  the  most  errone- 
ous and  perverse.     For  to  be  mistaught  is  worse  than  to  25 
be  untaught;  and  no  perverseness  equals    that   which   is 
supported  by  system,  no  errors  are  so  difficult  to  root  out  as  j 
those  which  the  understanding  has  pledged  its  credit  to 
uphold.     In  this  Class  are  contained  censors,  who,  if  they 
be  pleased  with  what  is  good,  are  pleased  with  it  only  by^0 
imperfect  glimpses,  and  upon  false  principles;  who,  should 


66  WORDSWORTITS^  PREFACES. 

they  generalise  rightly,  to  a  certain  point,  are  sure  to 
suffer  for  it  in  the  end;  who,  if  they  stumble  upon  a  sound 
rule,  are  fettered  by  misapplying  it,  or  by  straining  it  too 
far;  being  incapable  of  perceiving  when  it  ought  to  yield 

5  to  one  of  higher  order.  In  it  are  found  critics  too  petulant 
to  be  passive  to  a  genuine  poet,  and  too  feeble  to  grapple 
with  him;  men,  who  take  upon  them  to  report  of  the 
course  which  he  holds  whom  they  are  utterly  unable  to 
accompany,  — confounded  if  he  turn  quick  upon  the  wing, 

10  dismayed  if  he  soar  steadily  'into  the  region;' — men  of 
palsied  imaginations  and  indurated  hearts;  in  whose  minds 
all  healthy  action  is  languid,  who  therefore  feed  as  the 
many  direct  them,  or,  with  the  many,  are  greedy  after 
vicious  provocatives;  —  judges,  whose  censure  is  auspi- 

J5  cious,  and  whose  praise  ominous!1  In  this  class  meet 
together  the  two  extremes  of  best  and  worst. 

The  observations  presented  in  the  foregoing  series  are 
of  too  ungracious  a  nature  to  have  been  made  without 
reluctance;  and,  were  it  only  on  this  account,  I  would 

20  invite  the  reader  to  try  them  by  the  test  of  comprehensive 
experience.  If  the  number  of  judges  who  can  be  confi- 
dently relied  upon  be  in  reality  so  small,  it  ought  to  fol- 
low that  partial  notice  only,  or  neglect,  perhaps  long 
continued,  or  attention  wholly  inadequate  to  their  merits 

25  —  must  have  been  the  fate  of  most  works  in  the  higher 
departments  of  poetry ;  and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  numer- 
ous productions  have  blazed  into  popularity,  and  have 
passed  away,  leaving  scarcely  a  trace  behind  them;  it  will 
be  further  found,  that  when  Authors  shall  have  at  length 

3°  raised  themselves  into  general  admiration  and  maintained 
their  ground,  errors  and  prejudices  have  prevailed  con- 

y 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.        67 

earning  their  genius  and  their  works,  which  the  few  who 
are  conscious  of  those  errors  and  prejudices  would  deplore; 
if  they  were  not  recompensed  by  perceiving  that  there  are 
select  Spirits  for  whom  it  is  ordained  that  their  fame  shall 
be  in  the  world  an  existence  like  that  of  Virtue,  which  5 
owes  its  being  to  the  struggles  it  makes,  and  its  vigour  to 
the  enemies  whom  it  provokes;  —  a  vivacious  quality,  ever 
doomed  to  meet  with  opposition,  and  still  triumphing  over 
it;  and,  from  the  nature  of  its  dominion,  incapable  of 
being  brought  to  the  sad  conclusion  of  Alexander,  when  10 
he  wept  that  there  were  no  more  worlds  for  him  to  conquer. 

Let  us  take  a  hasty  retrospect  of  the  poetical  literature 
of  this  Country  for  the  greater  part  of  the  last  two  centuries, 
and  see  if  the  facts  support  these  inferences.1 

Who  is  there  that  now  reads  the  '  Creation  '  of  Dubartas?  15 
Yet  all  Europe  once  resounded  with  his  praise;  he  was 
caressed  by  kings;  and,  when  his  Poem  was  translated 
into  our  language,  the  'Faery  Queen'  faded  before  it. 
The  name  of  Spenser,  whose  genius  is  of  a  higher  order 
than  even  that  of  Ariosto,  is  at  this  day  scarcely  known  20 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  British  Isles.  And  if  the  value  of 
his  works  is  to  be  estimated  from  the  attention  now  paid  to 
them  by  his  countrymen,  compared  with  that  which  they 
bestow  on  those  of  some  other  writers,  it  must  be  pro- 
nounced small  indeed.  25 

The  laurel,  meed  of  mighty  conquerors 
And  poets  sage  — 

are  his  own  words;  but  his  wisdom  has,  in  this  particular, 
been  his  worst  enemy :  while  its  opposite,  whether  in  the 
shape  of  folly  or  madness,  has  been  their  best  friend.  But  3° 

V 


68  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

he  was  a  great  power,  and  bears  a  high  name :  the  laurel 
has  been  awarded  to  him.1 

A  dramatic  Author,  if  he  write  for  the  stage,  must  adapt 
himself  to  the  taste  of  the  audience,  or  they  will  not  endure 

5  him;  accordingly  the  mighty  genius  of  Shakspeare  was 
listened  to.  The  people  were  delighted:  but  I  am  not 
sufficiently  versed  in  stage  antiquities  to  determine  whether 
they  did  not  flock  as  eagerly  to  the  representation  of  many 
pieces  of  contemporary  Authors,  wholly  undeserving  to 

10  appear  upon  the  same  boards.  Had  there  been  a  formal 
contest  for  superiority  among  dramatic  writers,  that  Shak- 
speare, like  his  predecessors  Sophocles  and  Euripides, 
would  have  often  been  subject  to  the  mortification  of 
seeing  the  prize  adjudged  to  sorry  competitors,  becomes 

15  too  probable,  when  we  reflect  that  the  admirers  of  Settle 
and  Shadwell  were,  in  a  later  age,  as  numerous,  and 
reckoned  as  respectable  in  point  of  talent,  as  those  of 
Dryden.  At  all  events,  that  Shakspeare  stooped  to 
accommodate  himself  to  the  People,  is  sufficiently  appar- 

20  ent;  and  one  of  the  most  striking  proofs  of  his  almost 
omnipotent  genius,  is,  that  he  could  turn  to  such  glorious 
purpose  those  materials  which  the  prepossessions  of  the 
age  compelled  him  to  make  use  of.  Yet  even  this  marvel- 
lous skill  appears  not  to  have  been  enough  to  prevent  his 

25  rivals  from  having  some  advantage  over  him  in  public 
estimation;  else  how  can  we  account  for  passages  and 
scenes  that  exist  in  his  works,  unless  upon  a  supposition 
that  some  of  the  grossest  of  them,  a  fact  which  in  my  own 
mind  I  have  no  doubt  of,  were  foisted  in  by  the  Players, 

3°  for  the  gratification  of  the  many? 

But  that  his  Works,  whatever  might  be  their  reception 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1813-1845.      69 

upon  the  stage,  made  but  little  impression  upon  the  ruling 
Intellects  of  the  time,  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that 
Lord  Bacon,  in  his  multifarious  writings,  nowhere  either 
quotes  or  alludes  to  him.* — His  dramatic  excellence 
enabled  him  to  resume  possession  of  the  stage  after  the  5 
restoration;  but  Dry  den  tells  us  that  in  his  time  two  of  the 
plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  acted  for  one  of 
Shakspeare 's.  And  so  faint  and  limited  was  the  percep- 
tion of  the  poetic  beauties  of  his  dramas  in  the  time  of 
Pope,  that,  in  his  Edition  of  the  Plays,  with  a  view  of  i° 
rendering  to  the  general  reader  a  necessary  service,  he 
printed  between  inverted  commas  those  passages  which  he 
thought  most  worthy  of  notice. 

At  this  day,  the  French  Critics  have  abated  nothing  of 
their  aversion  to  this  darling  of  our  Nation:  'the  English,   J5 
with   their    bouffon   de    Shakspeare/    is    as    familiar   an 
expression  among  them  as  in  the  time  of  Voltaire.     Baron 
Grimm  is^  the  only  French  writer  who  seems  to  have  per- 
ceived his  infinite    superiority  to  the  first  names  of  the 
French   theatre;   an  advantage  which  the  Parisian  critic  20 
owed  to  his  German  blood  and  German  education.     The 
most  enlightened  Italians,  though  well  acquainted  with  our 
language,  are  wholly  incompetent  to  measure  the  propor- 
tions  of   Shakspeare.       The    Germans    only,    of    foreign 
nations,  are  approaching  towards  a  knowledge  and  feeling  25 
of  what  he  is.     In  some  respects  they  have  acquired  a 

*  The  learned  Hakewill  (a  third  edition  of  whose  book  bears  date  1635), 
writing  to  refute  the  error  '  touching  Nature's  perpetual  and  universal  decay,' 
cites  triumphantly  the  names  of  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Bartas,  and  Spenser,  as 
instances  that  poetic  genius  had  not  degenerated ;  but  he  makes  no  mention 
of  Shakspeare. 


70  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

superiority  over  the  fellow-countrymen  of  the  Poet:  for 
among  us  it  is  a  current,  I  might  say,  an  established  opin- 
ion, that  Shakspeare  is  justly  praised  when  he  is  pro- 
nounced to  be  'a  wild  irregular  genius,  in  whom  great 

5  faults  are  compensated  by  great  beauties. '  How  long  may 
it  be  before  this  misconception  passes  away,  and  it  becomes 
universally  acknowledged  that  (the  judgment  of  Shakspeare 
in  the  selection  of  his  materials,  and  in  the  manner  in 
which  he  has  made  them,  heterogeneous  as  they  often  are, 

10  constitute  a  unity  of  their  own,  and  contribute  all  to  one 

great  end,  is  not  less  admirable  than  his  imagination,  his 

invention,  and  his  intuitive  knowledge  of  human  Nature ! 

There  is  extant  a  small  Volume  of  miscellaneous  poems, 

in  which  Shakspeare  expresses  his  own  feelings  in  his  own 

15  person.  It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  Editor, 
George  Steevens,  should  have  been  insensible  to  the  beauties 
of  one  portion  of  that  Volume,  the  Sonnets;  though  in  no 
part  of  the  writings  of  this  Poet  is  found,  in  an  equal 
compass,  a  greater  number  of  exquisite  feelings  felicitously 

20  expressed.  But,  from  regard  to  the  Critic's  own  credit, 
he  would  not  have  ventured  to  talk  of  an  *  act  of  parliament 
not  being  strong  enough  to  compel  the  perusal  of  those 
little  pieces,  if  he  had  not  known  that  the  people  of 
England  were  ignorant  of  the  treasures  contained  in  them : 

25  and  if  he  had  not,  moreover,  shared  the  too  common 
propensity  of  human  nature  to  exult  over  a  supposed  fall 

.,1 

*  This  flippant  insensibility  was  publicly  reprehended  by  Mr.  Coleridge 
in  a  course  of  Lectures  upon  Poetry  given  by  him  at  the  Royal  Institution. 
For  the  various  merits  of  thought  and  language  in  Shakspeare's  Sonnets, 
see  Numbers,  27,  29,  30,  32,  33,  54,  64,  66,  68,  73,  76,  86,  91,  92,  93,  97,  98, 
105,  107,  108,  109,  in,  113,  114,  116,  117,  129,  and  many  others. 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.       71 

into  the  mire  of  a  genius  whom  he  had  been  compelled  to 
regard  with  admiration,  as  an  inmate  of  the  celestial 
regions  — ' there  sitting  where  he  durst  not  soar.' 

Nine  years  before  the  death  of  Shakspeare,  Milton  was 
born :  and  early  in  life  he  published  several  small  poems,     5 
which,  though  on  their  first  appearance  were  praised  by 
a  few  of  the  judicious,  were  afterwards  neglected  to  that 
degree,  that  Pope  in  his  youth  could  borrow  from  them 
without  risk  of  its  being  known.     Whether  these  poems 
are  at  this  day  justly  appreciated,  I  will  not  undertake  to  i° 
decide  :  nor  would  it  imply  a  severe  reflection  upon  the  mass 
of  readers  to  suppose  the  contrary;  seeing  that  a  man  of  the 
acknowledged  genius  of  Voss,  the  German  poet,  could  suffer 
their   spirit  to   evaporate;  and  could  change  their  char- 
acter, as  is  done  in  the  translation  made  by  him  of  the   15 
most  popular  of  those  pieces.     At  all  events,   it  is  certain 
that  these  Poems  of  Milton  are  now  much  read,  and  loudly 
praised;  yet  were  they  little  heard  of  till  more  than  150 
years   after   their   publication;    and  of  the   Sonnets,    Dr. 
Johnson,  as  appears  from  Boswell's  Life  of  him,  was  in  20 
the  habit  of  thinking  and  speaking  as  contemptuously  as 
Steevens  wrote  upon  those  of  Shakspeare. 

About  the  time  when  the  Pindaric  odes  of  Cowley  and 
his  imitators,  and  the  productions  of  that  class  of  curious 
thinkers  whom  Dr.  Johnson  has  strangely  styled  metaphysi-  25 
cal  Poets,  were  beginning  to  lose  something  of  that  extrav- 
agant admiration  which  they  had  excited,    the   '  Paradise 
Lost'   made  its  appearance.      'Fit  audience  find  though 
few,'  was  the  petition  addressed  by  the  Poet  to  his  inspir- 
ing Muse.     I  have  said  elsewhere   that  he  gained   more   3° 
than  he  asked;  this  I  believe  to  be  true;  but  Dr.  Johnson 


72  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

has  fallen  into  a  gross  mistake  when  he  attempts  to  prove, 
by  the  sale  of  the  work,  that  Milton's  Countrymen  were 
'just  to  it '  upon  its  first  appearance.  Thirteen  hundred 
Copies  were  sold  in  two  years;  an  uncommon  example,  he 

5  asserts,  of  the  prevalence  of  genius  in  opposition  to  so 
much  recent  enmity  as  Milton's  public  conduct  had  excited. 
But,  be  it  remembered  that,  if  Milton's  political  and 
religious  opinions,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  announced 
them  had  raised  him  many  enemies,  they  had  procured  him 

10  numerous  friends;  who,  as  all  personal  danger  was  passed 
away  at  the  time  of  publication,  would  be  eager  to  procure 
the  master-work  of  a  man  whom  they  revered,  and  whom  they 
would  be  proud  of  praising.  Take,  from  the  number  of  pur- 
chasers, persons  of  this  class,  and  also  those  who  wished  to 

15  possess  the  Poem  as  a  religious  work,  and  but  few  I  fear 
would  be  left  who  sought  for  it  on  account  of  its  poetical 
merits.  The  demand  did  not  immediately  increase;  'for,' 
says  Dr.  Johnson,  'many  more  readers  '  (he  means  persons  in 
the  habit  of  reading  poetry)  'than  were  supplied  at  first  the 

20  Nation  did  not  afford. '  How  careless  must  a  writer  be  who 
can  make  this  assertion  in  the  face  of  so  many  existing  title- 
pages  to  belie  it !  Turning  to  my  own  shelves,  I  find  the  folio 
of  Cowley,  seventh  edition,  1681.  A  book  near  it  is  Flat- 
man's  Poems,  fourth  edition,  1686;  Waller,  fifth  edition, 

25  same  date.  The  Poems  of  Norris  of  Bemerton  not  long 
after  went,  I  believe,  through  nine  editions.  What  further 
demand  there  might  be  for  these  works  I  do  not  know;  but 
I  well  remember,  that,  twenty-five  years  ago,  the  book- 
sellers' stalls  in  London  swarmed  with  the  folios  of  Cowley. 

30  This  is  not  mentioned  in  disparagement  of  that  able  writer 
and  amiable  man;  but  merely  to  show  —  that,  if  Milton's 


SUPPLEMENTARY  TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.      73 

work  were  not  more  read,  it  was  not  because  readers  did 
not  exist  at  the  time.  The  early  editions  of  '  Paradise 
Lost '  were  printed  in  a  shape  which  allowed  them  to  be 
sold  at  a  low  price,  yet  only  three  thousand  copies  of  the 
Work  were  sold  in  eleven  years;  and  the  Nation,  says  Dr.  5 
Johnson,  had  been  satisfied  from  1623  to  1664,  that  is, 
forty-one  years,  with  only  two  editions  of  the  Works  of 
Shakspeare;  which  probably  did  not  together  make  one 
thousand  Copies;  facts  adduced  by  the  critic  to  prove  the 
'paucity  of  Readers.'  — There  were  readers  in  multitudes;  10 
but  their  money  went  for  other  purposes,  as  their  admira- 
tion was  fixed  elsewhere.  We  are  authorized,  then,  to 
affirm,  that  the  reception  of  the  'Paradise  Lost,'  and  the 
slow  progress  of  its  fame,  are  proofs  as  striking  as  can  be 
desired  that  the  positions  which  I  am  attempting  to  estab-  15 
lish  are  not  erroneous.*  —  How  amusing  to  shape  to  one's 
self  such  a  critique  as  a  Wit  of  Charles's  days,  or  a  Lord 
of  the  Miscellanies  or  trading  Journalist  of  King  William's 
time,  would  have  brought  forth,  if  he  had  set  his  faculties 
industriously  to  work  upon  this  Poem,  every  where  impreg-  20 
nated  with  original  excellence. 

So  strange  indeed  are  the  obliquities  of  admiration,  that 
they  whose  opinions  are  much  influenced  by  authority  will 
often  be  tempted  to  think  that  there  are  no  fixed  princi- 
plesf  in  human  nature  for  this  art  to  rest  upon.  I  have  25 

*  Hughes  is  express  upon  this  subject :  in  his  dedication  of  Spenser's 
Works  to  Lord  Somers,  he  writes  thus.  '  It  was  your  Lordship's  encour- 
aging a  beautiful  Edition  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  that  first  brought  that  incom- 
parable Poem  to  be  generally  known  and  esteemed.' 

fThis  opinion  seems  actually  to  have  been  entertained  by  Adam  Smith,, 
the  worst  critic,  David  Hume  not  excepted,  that  Scotland,  a  soil  to  which 
this  sort  of  weed  seems  natural,  has  produced. 


74  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

been  honoured  by  being  permitted  to  peruse  in  MS.  a  tract 
composed  between  the  period  of  the  Revolution  and  the 
close  of  that  century.  It  is  the  Work  of  an  English  Peer 
of  high  accomplishments,  its  object  to  form  the  character 

5  and  direct  the  studies  of  his  son.  Perhaps  nowhere  does 
a  more  beautiful  treatise  of  the  kind  exist.  The  good 
sense  and  wisdom  of  the  thoughts,  the  delicacy  of  the 
feelings,  and  the  charm  of  the  style,  are,  throughout, 
equally  conspicuous.  Yet  the  Author,  selecting  among 

jo  the  Poets  of  his  own  country  those  whom  he  deems  most 
worthy  of  his  son's  perusal,  particularises  only  Lord 
Rochester,  Sir  John  Denham,  and  Cowley.  Writing  about 
the  same  time,  Shaftsbury,  an  author  at  present  unjustly 
depreciated,  describes  the  English  Muses  as  only  yet  lisp- 

15  ing  in  their  cradles. 

The  arts  by  which  Pope,  soon  afterwards,  contrived  to 
procure  to  himself  a  more  general  and  a  higher  reputation 
than  perhaps  any  English  Poet  ever  attained  during  his 
life-time,  are  known  to  the  judicious.  And  as  well  known 

20  is  it  to  them,  that  the  undue  exertion  of  those  arts  is  the 
cause  why  Pope  has  for  some  time  held  a  rank  in  literature, 
to  which,  if  he  had  not  been  seduced  by  an  over-love  of 
immediate  popularity,  and  had  confided  more  in  his  native 
genius,  he  never  could  have  descended.  He  bewitched 

25  the  nation  by  his  melody,  and  dazzled  it  by  his  polished 
style,  and  was  himself  blinded  by  his  own  success.  Hav- 
ing wandered  from  humanity  in  his  Eclogues  with  boyish 
inexperience,  the  praise,  which  these  compositions  ob- 
tained, tempted  him  into  a  belief  that  Nature  was  not  to 

3°  be  trusted,  at  least  in  pastoral  Poetry.  To  prove  this  by 
example,  he  put  his  friend  Gay  upon  writing  those 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE   PREFACE,   1815-1845.       75 

Eclogues  which  their  author  intended  to  be  burlesque. 
The  instigator  of  the  work,  and  his  admirers,  could  per- 
ceive in  them  nothing  but  what  was  ridiculous.  Never- 
theless, though  these  Poems  contain  some  detestable 
passages,  the  effect,  as  Dr.  Johnson  well  observes,  'of  5 
reality  and  truth  became  conspicuous  even  when  the  inten- 
tion was  to  show  them  grovelling  and  degraded.'  The 
Pastorals,  ludicrous  to  such  as  prided  themselves  upon 
their  refinement,  in  spite  of  those  disgusting  passages, 
'became  popular,  and  were  read  with  delight,  as  just  i° 
representations  of  rural  manners  and  occupations.' 

Something  less  than  sixty  years  after  the  publication  of 
the  'Paradise  Lost'  appeared  Thomson's  'Winter;'  which 
was  speedily  followed  by  his  other  'Seasons.'     It  is  a  work 
of  inspiration;  much  of  it  is  written  from  himself,    and  15 
no^ly  from  himself.     How  was  it  received?     'It  was  no 
sooner  read,'  says  one  of  his  contemporary  biographers, 
'than  universally  admired;  those  only  excepted  who  had 
not  been  used  to  feel,  or  to  look  for  anything  in  poetry, 
beyond  a  point  of  satirical  or  epigrammatic  wit,   a  smart  20 
antithesis  richly  trimmed  with  rhyme,  or  the  softness  of  an 
elegiac  complaint.     To  such  his  manly  classical  spirit  could 
not  readily  commend   itself;  till,  after  a  more  attentive 
perusal,  they  had  got  the  better  of  their  prejudices,  and 
either  acquired  or  affected  \  truer  taste.     A  few  others  25 
stood  aloof,  merely  because  they  had  long  before  fixed  the 
articles  of  their  poetical  creed,  and  resigned  themselves  to 
an  absolute  despair  of  ever  seeing  any  thing  new  and  orig- 
inal.    These  were  somewhat  mortified  to  find  their  notions 
disturbed  by  the  appearance  of  a  poet,  who  seemed  to  owe  3° 
nothing  but  to  Nature  and  his  own  genius.     But,  in  a  short 


76  WORDSWORTH^S  PREFACES. 

time,  the  applause  became  unanimous;  every  one  wonder- 
ing how  so  many  pictures,  and  pictures  so  familiar,  should 
have  moved  them  but  faintly  to  what  they  felt  in  his 
descriptions.  His  digressions  too,  the  overflowings  of  a 

5  tender  benevolent  heart,  charmed  the  reader  no  less;  leav- 
ing him  in  doubt,  whether  he  should  more  admire  the  Poet 
or  love  the  Man.7 

This  case  appears  to  bear  strongly  against  us :  —  but  we 
must  distinguish  between  wonder  and  legitimate  admira- 

10  tion.  The  subject  of  the  work  is  the  changes  produced  in 
the  appearances  of  Nature  by  the  revolution  of  the  year : 
and,  by  undertaking  to  write  in  verse,  Thomson  pledged 
himself  to  treat  his  subject  as  became  a  Poet.  Now  it  is 
remarkable  that,  excepting  the  nocturnal  '  Reverie '  of 

15  Lady  Winchilsea,  and  a  passage  or  two  in  the  '  Windsor 
Forest,'  of  Pope,  the  poetry  of  the  period  intervening 
between  the  publication  of  the  ' Paradise  Lost'  and  the 
1  Seasons'  does  not  contain  a  single  new  image  of  external 
Nature;  and  scarcely  presents  a  familiar  one  from  which  it 

20  can  be  inferred  that  the  eye  of  the  Poet  had  been  steadily 
fixed  upon  his  object,  much  less  that  his  feelings  had  urged 
him  to  work  upon  it  in  the  spirit  of  genuine  imagination. 
To  what  a  low  state  knowledge  of  the  most  obvious  and 
important  phenomena  had  sunk,  is  evident  from  the  style 

25  in  which  Dryden  has  executed  a  description  of  Night 
in  one  of  his  Tragedies,  and  Pope  his  translation  of  the 
celebrated  moonlight  scene  in  the  ' Iliad.'  A  blind  man, 
in  the  habit  of  attending  accurately  to  descriptions  casually 
dropped  from  the  lips  of  those  around  him,  might  easily 

30  depict  these  appearances  with  more  truth.     Dryden' s  lines 


SUPPLEMENTARY  TO    THE  PREFACE,   1813-1845.       77 

are  vague,  bombastic,  and  senseless;  *  those  of  Pope,  though 
he  had  Homer  to  guide  him,  are  throughout  false  and 
contradictory.  The  verses  of  Dryden,  once  highly  cele- 
brated, are  forgotten;  those  of  Pope  still  retain  their  hold 
upon  public  estimation,  —  nay,  there  is  not  a  passage  of  5 
descriptive  poetry,  which  at  this  day  finds  so  many  and 
such  ardent  admirers.  Strange  to  think  of  an  enthusiast, 
as  may  have  been  the  case  with  thousands,  reciting  those 
verses  under  the  cope  of  a  moonlight  sky,  without  having 
his  raptures  in  the  least  disturbed  by  a  suspicion  of  their  10 
absurdity!  —  If  these  two  distinguished  writers  could 
habitually  think  that  the  visible  universe  was  of  so  little 
consequence  to  a  poet,  that  it  was  scarcely  necessary  for 
him  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  it,  we  may  be  assured  that  those 
passages  of  the  elder  poets  which  faithfully  and  poetically  15 
describe  the  phenomena  of  Nature,  were  not  at  that  time 
holden  in  much  estimation,  and  that  there  was  little 
accurate  attention  paid  to  those  appearances. 

/  Wonder  is  the  natural  product  of  Ignorance ;  and  as  the 
soil  was  in  such  good  condition  at  the  time  of  the  publica-  20 
tion  of  the  'Seasons,'  the  crop  was  doubtless  abundant. 
Neither  individuals  nor  nations  become  corrupt  all  at  once, 
nor  are  they  enlightened  in  a  moment.  Thomson  was  an 
inspired  poet,  but  he  could  not  work  miracles;  in  cases 

*  CORTES  alone  in  a  night-gown. 
All  things  are  hush'd  as  Nature's  self  lay  dead ; 
The  mountains  seem  to  nod  their  drowsy  head. 
The  little  Birds  in  dreams  their  songs  repeat, 
And  sleeping  Flowers  beneath  the  Night-dew  sweat : 
Even  Lust  and  Envy  sleep ;  yet  Love  denies 
Rest  to  my  soul,  and  slumber  to  my  eyes. 

DRYDEN'S  Indian  Emperor. 


78  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

where  the  art  of  seeing  had  in  some  degree  been  learned, 
the  teacher  would  further  the  proficiency  of  his  pupils,  but 
he  could  do  little  more ;  though  so  far  does  vanity  assist 
men  in  acts  of  self-deception,  that  many  would  often  fancy 

5    they  recognised  a  likeness  when  they  knew  nothing  of  the 
original.      Having  shown  that  much  of  what  his  biographer 
deemed  genuine  admiration  must  in  fact  have  been  blind 
wonderment  —  how  is  the  rest   to   be  accounted  for?  — 
Thomson  was  fortunate  in  the  very  title  of  his  poem,  which 

10  seemed  to  bring  it  home  to  the  prepared  sympathies  of 
every  one :  in  the  next  place,  notwithstanding  his  high 
powers,  he  writes  a  vicious  style;  and  his  false  ornaments 
are  exactly  of  that  kind  which  would  be  most  likely  to 
strike  the  undiscerning.  He  likewise  abounds  with  senti- 

J5  mental  common-places,  that,  from  the  manner  in  which 
they  were  brought  forward,  bore  an  imposing  air  of  novelty. 
In  any  well-used  copy  of  the  '  Seasons  '  the  book  generally 
opens  of  itself  with  the  rhapsody  on  love,  or  with  one  of 
the  stories  (perhaps  ' Damon  and  Musidora');  these  also 

20  are  prominent  in  our  collections  of  Extracts,  and  are  the 
parts  of  his  Work,  which,  after  all,  were  probably  most 
efficient  in  first  recommending  the  author  to  general 
notice.  Pope,  repaying  praises  which  he  had  received, 
and  wishing  to  extol  him  to  the  highest,  only  styles  him 

25  'an  elegant  and  philosophical  poet;'  nor  are  we  able  to 
collect  any  unquestionable  proofs  that  the  true  character- 
istics of  Thomson's  genius  as  an  imaginative  poet*  were 

*  Since  these  observations  upon  Thomson  were  written,  I  have  perused 
the  second  edition  of  his  '  Seasons,'  and  find  that  even  that  does  not  contain 
the  most  striking  passages  which  Warton  points  out  for  admiration;  these 
with  other  improvements,  throughout  the  whole  work,  must  have  been  added 
at  a  later  period. 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1813-1845.       79 

perceived,  till  the  elder  Warton,  almost  forty  years  after 
the  publication  of  the  ' Seasons,'  pointed  them  out  by  a 
note  in  his  Essay  on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Pope.  In 
the  '  Castle  of  Indolence  '  (of  which  Gray  speaks  so  coldly) 
these  characteristics  were  almost  as  conspicuously  dis-  5 
played,  and  in  verse  more  harmonious,  and  diction  more 
pure.  Yet  that  fine  poem  was  neglected  on  its  appearance, 
and  is  at  this  day  the  delight  only  of  a  few ! 

When  Thomson  died,  CjDiHijs-breathed  forth  his  regrets 
in  an  Elegiac  Poem,  in  which  he  pronounces  a  poetical  10 
curse  upon  him  who  should  regard  with  insensibility  the 
place   where    the    Poet's   remains  were   de-posited.      The 
Poems  of  the  mourner  himself  have  now  passed  through 
innumerable  editions,  and  are  universally  known;  but  if, 
when  Collins  died,  the  same  kind  of  imprecation  had  been  15 
pronounced  by  a  surviving  admirer,  small  is  the  number 
whom  it  would  not  have  comprehended.     The  notice  which    . 
his  poems  attained  during  his  life-time  was  so  small,  and 
of  course  the  sale  so  insignificant,  that  not  long  before  his 
death  he  deemed  it  right  to  repay  to  the  bookseller  the  20 
sum  which  he  had  advanced  for  them,  and  threw  the  edi- 
tion into  the  fire. 

Next  in  importance  to  the  'Seasons  '  of  Thomson,  though 
at  considerable  distance  from  that  work  in  order  of  time, 
come  the  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry ;  collected,    25 
new-modelled,  and  in  many  instances  (if  such  a  contradic- 
tion in  terms  may  be  used)  composed  by  the  Editor,  Dr. 
Percy.     This  work  did  not  steal  silently  into  the  world,  as 
is  evident  from  the  number  of  legendary  tales,  that  appeared 
not  long  after  its  publication;  and  had  been  modelled,  as  3° 
the  authors  persuaded  themselves,    after  the  old  Ballad. 


80  WORDS WOR  TITS  PREFA  CES. 

The  Compilation  was  however  ill  suited  to  the  then  exist- 
ing taste  of  city  society;  and  Dr.  Johnson,  'mid  the  little 
senate  to  which  he  gave  laws,  was  not  sparing  in  his  exer- 
tions to  make  it  an  object  of  contempt.  The  critic 

5  triumphed,  the  legendary  imitators  were  deservedly  disre- 
garded, and,  as  undeservedly,  their  ill-imitated  models 
sank,  in  this  country,  into  temporary  neglect;  while 
Burger,  and  other  able  writers  of  Germany,  were  translat- 
ing, or  imitating  these  Reliques,  and  composing,  with  the 

10  aid  of  inspiration  thence  derived,  poems  which  are  the 
delight  of  the  German  nation.  Dr.  Percy  was  so  abashed 
by  the  ridicule  flung  upon  his  labours  from  the  ignorance 
and  insensibility  of  the  persons  with  whom  he  lived,  that, 
though  while  he  was  writing  under  a  mask  he  had  not 

15  wanted  resolution  to  follow  his  genius  into  the  regions  of 
j-meL  simplicity  and  genuine  pathos  (as  is  evinced  by  the 
exquisite  ballad  of  'Sir  Cauline '  and  by  many  other 
pieces),  yet  when  he  appeared  in  his  own  person  and 
character  as  a  poetical  writer,  he  adopted,  as  in,  the  tale  of 

20  the  ' Hermit  of  Warkworth, '  a  diction  scarcely  in  any  one 
of  its  features  distinguishable  from  the  vague,  the  glossy, 
and  unfeeling  language  of  his  day.  I  mention  this  remark- 
able fact  *  with  regret,  esteeming  the  genius  of  Dr.  Percy 
in  this  kind  of  writing  superior  to  that  of  any  other  man 

*  Shenstone,  in  his  '  Schoolmistress,'  gives  a  still  more  remarkable  in- 
stance of  this  timidity.  On  its  first  appearance,  (See  D'Israeli's  26.  Series 
of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature)  the  Poem  was  accompanied  with  an  absurd 
prose  commentary,  showing,  as  indeed  some  incongruous  expressions  in 
the  text  imply,  that  the  whole  was  intended  for  burlesque.  In  subse- 
quent editions,  the  commentary  was  dropped,  and  the  People  have  since 
continued  to  read  in  seriousness,  doing  for  the  Author  what  he  had  not 
courage  openly  to  venture  upon  for  himself. 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,    1815-1845.       SI 

by  whom  in  modern  times  it  has  been  cultivated.  That 
even  Burger  (to  whom  Klopstock  gave,  in  my  hearing,  a 
commendation  which  he  denied  to  Goethe  and  Schiller, 
pronouncing  him  to  be  a  genuine  poet,  and  one  of  the  few 
among  the  Germans  whose  works  would  last)  had  not  the  5 
fine  sensibility  of  Percy,  might  be  shown  from  many  pas- 
sages, in  which  he  has  deserted  his  original  only  to  go 
astray.  For  example, 

Now  daye  was  gone,  and  night  was  come, 

And  all  were  fast  asleepe,  10 

All  save  the  Lady  Emeline, 

Who  sate  in  her  bowre  to  weepe : 

And  soone  she  heard  her  true  Love's  voice 

Low  whispering  at  the  walle, 

Awake,  awake,  my  dear  Ladye,  15 

'Tis  I  thy  true-love  call. 

Which  is  thus  tricked  out  and  dilated : 

Als  nun  die  Nacht  Gebirg'  und  Thai 

Vermummt  in  Rabenschatten, 

Und  Hochburgs  Lampen  liberall  20 

Schon  ausgeflimmert  batten, 

Und  alles  tief  entschlafen  war; 

Doch  nur  das  Fraulein  immerdar 

Voll  Fieberangst,  noch  wachte, 

Und  seinen  Ritter  dachte  :  25 

Da  horch  !  Ein  slisser  Liebeston 

Kam  leis''  empor  geflogen. 

'  Ho,  Triidchen,  ho  !     Da  bin  ich  schon  ! 

Frisch  auf !     Dich  angezogen ! ' 

But  from  humble  ballads  we  must  ascend  to  heroics.  3° 

All  hail,  Macpherson  !  hail  to  thee,  Sire  of  Ossian  !     The 


82  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES, 

Phantom  was  begotten  by  the  smug  embrace  of  an  impu- 
dent Highlander  upon  a  cloud  of  tradition  —  it  travelled 
southward,  where  it  was  greeted  with  acclamation,  and  the 
\  thin  Consistence  took  its  course  through  Europe,  upon  the 

5  j  breath  of  popular  applause.     The  Editor  of  the  Reliqucs 

\  had  indirectly  preferred  a  claim  to  the  praise  of  invention, 

by    not   concealing   that  his   supplementary  labours  were 

considerable!  how  selfish  his  conduct,  contrasted  with  that 

of  the  disinterested  Gael,  who,   like  Lear,  gives  his  king- 

10  dom  away,  and  is  content  to  become  a  pensioner  upon  his 
own  issue  for  a  beggarly  pittance !  —  Open  this  far-famed 
Book !  —  I  have  done  so  at  random,  and  the  beginning  of 
the  'Epic  Poem  Temora,'  in  eight  Books,  presents  itself. 
'The  blue  waves  of  Ullin  roll  in  light.  The  green  hills 

15  are  covered  with  day.  Trees  shake  their  dusky  heads  in 
the  breeze.  Grey  torrents  pour  their  noisy  streams.  Two 
green  hills  with  aged  oaks  surround  a  narrow  plain.  The 
blue  course  of  a  stream  is  there.  On  its  banks  stood 
Cairbar  of  Atha.  His  spear  supports  the  king;  the  red 

20  eyes  of  his  fear  are  sad.  Cormac  rises  on  his  soul  with 
all  his  ghastly  wounds. '  Precious  memorandums  from  the 
pocket-book  of  the  blind  Ossian ! 

If  it  be  unbecoming,  as  I  acknowledge  that  for  the  most 
part   it   is,    to   speak   disrespectfully  of  Works  that  have 

25  enjoyed  for  a  length  of  time  a  widely-spread  reputation, 
without  at  the  same  time  producing  irrefragable  proofs  of 
their  unworthiness,  let  me  be  forgiven  upon  this  occasion. 
—  Having  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  and  reared  in 
a  mountainous  country,  from  my  very  childhood  I  have 

30  felt  the  falsehood  that  pervades  the  volumes  imposed  upon 
the  world  under  the  name  of  Ossian.  From  what  I  saw 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.       83 

with  my  own  eyes,  I  knew  that  the  imagery  was  spurious. 
I  In  Nature  everything  is  distinct,  yet  nothing  defined  into 
"absolute  independent  singleness.)  In  Macpherson's  work, 
it  is  exactly  the  reverse;  every  thing  (that  is  not  stolen)  is 
in  this  manner  defined,  insulated,  dislocated,  deadened,  5 

—  yet  nothing  distinct.     It  will  always  be  so  when  words 
are    substituted    for   things.     To   say  that   the    characters 
never  could  exist,  that  the  manners  are  impossible,  and 
that  a  dream  has  more  substance  than  the  whole  state  of 
society,   as   there  depicted,   is  doing  nothing  more   than  10 
pronouncing  a  censure  which  Macpherson  defied;  when, 
with  the  steeps  of  Morven  before  his  eyes,  he  could  talk 

so  familiarly  of  his  Car-borne  heroes;  —  of  Morven,  which, 
if  one  may  judge  from  its  appearance  at  the  distance  of  a 
few  miles,  contains  scarcely  an  acre  of  ground  sufficiently  15 
accommodating  for  a  sledge  to  be  trailed  along  its  surface. 

—  Mr.  Malcolm  Laing  has  ably  shown  that  the  diction  of 
this  pretended  translation  is  a  motley  assemblage  from  all 
quarters;  but  he  is  so  fond  of  making  out  parallel  passages 

as  to  call  poor  Macpherson  to  account  for  his  l  ands  '   and  20 
lbuts! '  and  he  has  weakened  his  argument  by  conducting 
it  as  if  he  thought  that  every  striking  resemblance  was  a 
conscious  plagiarism.     It  is  enough  that  the  coincidences 
are  too  remarkable  for  its  being  probable  or  possible  that 
they  could  arise  in  different  minds  without  communication  25 
between  them.     Now  as  the  Translators  of  the  Bible,  and 
Shakspeare,  Milton,   and  Pope,  could  not  be  indebted  to 
Macpherson,   it  follows  that  he  must  have  owed  his  fine 
feathers  to  them;  unless  we  are  prepared  gravely  to  assert, 
with  Madame  de   Stae'l,    that  many  of  the   characteristic  3° 
beauties  of  our  most  celebrated  English  Poets  are  derived 


84  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

from  the  ancient  Fingallian;  in  which  case  the  modern 
translator  would  have  been  but  giving  back  to  Ossian  his 
own.  —  It  is  consistent  that  Lucien  Buonaparte,  who  could 
censure  Milton  for  having  surrounded  Satan  in  the  infernal 

5  regions  with  courtly  and  regal  splendour,  should  pronounce 
the  modern  Ossian  to  be  the  glory  of  Scotland;  —  a  country 
that  has  produced  a  Dunbar,  a  Buchanan,  a  Thomson,  and 
a  Burns!  These  opinions  are  of  ill-omen  for  the  Epic 
ambition  of  him  who  has  given  them  to  the  world. 

10  Yet,  much  as  those  pretended  treasures  of  antiquity  have 
been  admired,  they  have  been  wholly  uninfluential  upon 
the  literature  of  the  Country.  No  succeeding  writer 
appears  to  have  caught  from  them  a  ray  of  inspiration;  no 
author,  in  the  least  distinguished,  has  ventured  formally 

*5  to  imitate  them  ^-except  the  boy,  Chatterton,  on  their 
first  appearance.  He  had  perceived,  from  the  success- 
ful trials  which  he  himself  had  made  in  literary  forgery, 
how  few  critics  were  able  to  distinguish  between  a  real 
ancient  medal  and  a  counterfeit  of  modern  manufacture ; 

20  and  he  set  himself  to  the  work  of  filling  a  magazine  with 
Saxon  Poems,  —  counterparts  of  those  of  Ossian,  as  like 
his  as  one  of  his  misty  stars  is  to  another.  This  incapa- 
bility to  amalgamate  with  the  literature  of  the  Island,  is, 
in  my  estimation,  a  decisive  proof  that  the  book  is  essen- 

25  tially  unnatural;  nor  should  I  require  any  other  to  demon- 
strate it  to  be  a  forgery,  audacious  as  worthless.  Contrast, 
in  this  respect,  the  effect  of  Macpherson's  publication 
with  the  Reliques  of  Percy,  so  unassuming,  so  modest  in 
their  pretensions !  —  I  have  already  stated  how  much  Ger- 

30  many  is  indebted  to  this  latter  work;  and  for  our  own 
country,  its  poetry  has  been  absolutely  redeemed  by  it.  I 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.       85 

do  not  think  that  there  is  an  able  writer  in  verse  of  the 
present  day  who  would  not  be  proud  to  acknowledge  his 
obligations  to  the  Reliques;  I  know  that  it  is  so  with  my 
friends;  and,  for  myself,  I  am  happy  in  this  occasion  to 
make  a  public  avowel  of  my  own. 

Dr.  Johnson,  more  fortunate  in  his  contempt  of  the 
labours  of  Macpherson  than  those  of  his  modest  friend, 
was  solicited  not  long  after  to  furnish  Prefaces  biographi- 
cal and  critical  for  the  works  of  some  of  the  most  eminent 
English  Poets.  The  booksellers  took  upon  themselves  to  ic 
make  the  collection;  they  referred  probably  to  the  most 
popular  miscellanies,  and,  unquestionably,  to  their  books 
of  accounts;  and  decided  upon  the  claim  of  authors  to  be 
admitted  into  a  body  of  the  most  eminent,  from  the  famil- 
iarity of  their  names  with  the  readers  of  that  day,  and  by  r5 
the  profits,  which,  from  the  sale  of  his  works,  each  had 
brought  and  was  bringing  to  the  Trade.  The  Editor  was 
allowed  a  limited  exercise  of  discretion,  and  the  Authors 
whom  he  recommended  are  scarcely  to  be  mentioned  with- 
out a  smile.  We  open  the  volume  of  Prefatory  Lives,  and  20 
to  our  astonishment  the  first  name  we  find  is  that  of  Cow- 
j££Jj7-What  is  become  of  the  morning-star  pF~English 
Poetry?  Where  is  the  bright  Elizabethan  constellation? 
Or,  if  names  be  more  acceptable  than  images,  where  is 
the  ever-to-be-honoured  Chaucer?  Where  is  Spenser?  25 
where  Sidney?  and,  lastly,  where  he,  whose  rights  as  a 
poet,  contradistinguished  from  those  which  he  is  univer- 
sally allowed  to  possess  as  a  dramatist,  we  have  vindicated, 
—  where  Shakspeare?  —  These,  and  a  multitude  of  others 
not  unworthy  to  be  placed  near  them,  their  contempo-  3° 
raries  and  successors,  we  have  not.  But  in  their  stead,  we 


S6  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

have  (could  better  be  expected  when  precedence  was  to  be 
'settled  by  an  abstract  of  reputation  at  any  given  period 
inade,  as  in  this  case  before  us?)  Roscommon,  and  Step- 
-ney,  and  Phillips,  and  Walsh,  and  Smith,  and  Duke,  and 

5  King,  andSpratt  —  Halifax,  Granville,  Sheffield,  Congreve, 
Broome,  and  other  reputed  Magnates  —  metrical  writers 
utterly  worthless  and  useless,  except  for  occasions  like  the 
present,  when  their  productions  are  referred  to  as  evidence 
what  a  small  quantity  of  brain  is  necessary  to  procure  a 

10  considerable  stock  of  admiration,  provided  the  aspirant 
will  accommodate  himself  to  the  likings  and  fashions  of 
his  day. 

As  I  do  not  mean  to  bring  down  this  retrospect  to  our 
own  times,  it  may  with  propriety  be  closed  at  the  era  of 

J5  this  distinguished  event.  From  the  literature  of  other  ages 
and  countries,  proofs  equally  cogent  might  have  been 
adduced,  that  the  opinions  announced  in  the  former  part 
of  this  Essay  are  founded  upon  truth.  It  was  not  an 
agreeable  office,  nor  a  prudent  undertaking,  to  declare 

20  them;  but  their  importance  seemed  to  render  it  a  duty. 
It  may  still  be  asked,  where  lies  the  particular  relation  of 
what  has  been  said  to  these  Volumes?  —  The  question 
will  be  easily  answered  by  the  discerning  Reader  who  is  old 
enough  to  remember  the  taste  that  prevailed  when  some  of 

25  these  poems  were  first  published,  seventeen  years  ago; 
who  has  also  observed  to  what  degree  the  poetry  of  this 
Island  has  since  that  period  been  coloured  by  them;  and 
who  is  further  aware  of  the  unremitting  hostility  with 
which,  upon  some  principle  or  other,  they  have  each  and 

3°  all  been  opposed.  A  sketch  of  my  own  notion  of  the 
constitution  of  Fame  has  been  given;  and,  as  far  as  con- 


SUPPLEMENTARY  TO    THE  PREFACE,    1815-1845.       87 

cerns  myself,  I  have  cause  to  be  satisfied.  The  love,  the 
admiration,  the  indifference,  the  slight,  the  aversion,  and 
even  the  contempt,  with  which  these  Poems  have  been 
received,  knowing,  as  I  do,  the  source  within  my  own 
mind,  from  which  they  have  proceeded,  and  the  labour  5 
and  pains,  which,  when  labour  and  pains  appeared  need- 
ful, have  been  bestowed  upon  them,  must  all,  if  I  think 
consistently,  be  received  as  pledges  and  tokens,  bearing 
the  same  general  impression,  though  widely  different  in 
value;  —  they  are  all  proofs  that  for  the  present  time  I  10 
have  not  laboured  in  vain;  and  afford  assurances,  more  or 
less  authentic,  that  the  products  of  my  industry  will  endure. 

If  there  be  one  conclusion  more  forcibly  pressed  upon 
us  than  another  by  the  review  which  has  been  given  of  the 
fortunes  and  fate  of  poetical  Works,  it  is  this,  — /  that  everyJ  r5 
author,  as  far  as  he  is  great  and  at  the  same  time  original,} 
has  had  the  task  of  creating  the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  ba 
enjoyed;  so  has  it  been,  so  will  it  continue  to  be.)   This 
remark  was  long  since  made  to  me  by  the  philosophical 
Friend  for  the  separation  of  whose  poems  from  my  own  I  20 
have  previously  expressed  my  regret.     The  predecessors  of 
an  original  Genius  of  a  high  order  will  have  smoothed  the 
way  for  all  that  he  has  in  common  with  them;  —  and  much 
he  will  have  in  common;  but,  for  what  is  peculiarly  his 
own,  he  will  be  called  upon  to  clear  and  often  to  shape  his  25 
own    road :  —  he   will   be    in  the  condition  of   Hannibal 
among  the  Alps. 

And  where  lies  the  real  difficulty  of  creating  that  taste  by 
which  a  truly  original  poet  is  to  be  relished?     Is  it  in 
breaking  the  bonds  of  custom,    in  overcoming  the  preju-  3° 
dices  of  false  refinement,  and  displacing  the  aversions  of 


88  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

inexperience?     Or,  if  he  labour  for  an  object  which  here 
and  elsewhere  I  have  proposed  to  myself,  does  it  consist 
in  divesting  the  reader  of  the  pride  that  induces  him  to 
dwell  upon  those  points   wherein   men   differ  from  each 
5    other,  to  the  exclusion  of  those  in  which  all  men  are  alike, 
or  the  same;  and  in  making  him  ashamed  of  the  vanity 
that  renders  him  insensible  of  the  appropriate  excellence 
which  civil  arrangements,  less  unjust  than  might  appear, 
and  Nature  illimitable  in  her  bounty,   have  conferred  on 
i°  men  who  may  stand  below  him  in  the  scale  of  society? 
Finally,  does  it  lie  in  establishing  that  dominion  over  the 
spirits  of  readers  by  which  they  are  to  be  humbled  and 
humanised,  in  order  that  they  may  be  purified  and  exalted? 
If  these  ends  are  to  be  attained  by  the  mere  communica- 
J5  tion  of  knowledge,   it  does  not  lie  here.  — TASTE,  I  would 
remind  the  reader,  like  IMAGINATION,  is  a  word  which  has 
been  forced  to  extend  its  services  far  beyond  the  point  to 
which  philosophy   would  have   confined    them.1     It    is   a 
metaphor,  taken  from  a  passive  sense  of  the  human  body, 
20  and  transferred  to  things  which  are  in  their  essence  not 
passive,  —  to  intellectual  acts  and  operations.     The  word, 
Imagination,  has  been  overstrained,   from  impulses  hon- 
ourable to  mankind,  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  faculty 
which  is  perhaps  the  noblest  of  our  nature.     In  the  instance 
25  of  Taste,    the  process  has  been  reversed;  and  from  the 
prevalence  of  dispositions  at  once  injurious  and  discredit- 
able, being  no  other  than  that  selfishness  which  is  the  child 
of  apathy,  — which,  as  Nations  decline  in  productive  and 
creative  power,  makes  them  value  themselves  upon  a  pre- 
30  sumed  refinement  of  judging.     Poverty  of  language  is  the 
primary  cause  of  the  use  which  we  make  of  the  word, 


SUPPLEMENTARY  TO    THE  PREFACE,   1815-1845.       89 

Imagination;  but  the  word,  Taste,  has  been  stretched  to 
the  sense  which  it  bears  in  modern  Europe  by  habits  of 
self-conceit,  inducing  that  inversion  in  the  order  of  things 
whereby  a  passive  faculty  is  made  paramount  among  the 
faculties  conversant  with  the  fine  arts.  Proportion  and 
congruity,  the  requisite  knowledge  being  supposed,  are 
subjects  upon  which  taste  may  be  trusted;  it  is  competent 
to  this  office;  —  for  in  its  intercourse  with  these  the  mind 
is  passive,  and  is  affected  painfully  or  pleasurably  as  by  an 
instinct.  But  the  profound  and  the  exquisite  in  feeling,  10 
the  lofty  and  universal  in  thought  and  imagination;  or,  in 
ordinary  language,  the  pathetic  and  the  sublime;  —  are 
neither  of  them,  accurately  speaking,  objects  of  a  faculty 
which  could  ever  without  a  sinking  in  the  spirit  of  Nations 
have  been  designated  by  the  metaphor  —  Taste.  And  15 
why?  Because  without  the  exertion  of  a  co-operating 
power  in  the  mind  of  the  Reader,  there  can  be  no  ade- 
quate sympathy  with  either  of  these  emotions :  without  this 
auxiliary  impulse,  elevated  or  profound  passion  cannot  exist. 

Passion,  it  must  be  observed,  is  derived  from  a  word  20 
which  signifies  suffering;  but  the  connection  which  suffer- 
ing has  with  effort,  with  exertion,  and  action,  is  immediate 
and  inseparable.  How  strikingly  is  this  property  of  human 
nature  exhibited  by  the  fact,  that,  in  popular  language,  to 
be  in  a  passion,  is  to  be  angry !  —  But,  25 

Anger  in  hasty  words  or  blows 
Itself  discharges  on  its  foes. 

(  ^ 

lTo  be  moved,  then,  by  a  passion,   is  to  be  excited,  often 

to  external,  and  always  to  internal,  effort  ?  whether  for  the 
continuance  and  strengthening  of  the  passion,  or  for  its  3° 


90  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

suppression,  accordingly  as  the  course  which  it  takes  may 
be  painful  or  pleasurable.  If  the  latter,  the  soul  must 
contribute  to  its  support,  or  it  never  becomes  vivid,  —  and 
soon  languishes,  and  dies.  And  this  brings  us  to  the 
5  point.  If  every  great  poet  with  whose  writings  men  are 
familiar,  in  the  highest  exercise  of  his  genius,  before  he 
can  be  thoroughly  enjoyed,  has  to  call  forth  and  to  com- 
municate power,  this  service,  in  a  still  greater  degree,  falls 
upon  an  original  writer,  at  his  first  appearance  in  the  world. 

r»  — f  Of  genius  the  only  proof  is,  the  act  of  doing  well  what 
is  worthy  to  be  done,  and  what  was  never  done  before:  Of 
genius,  in  the  fine  arts,  the  only  infallible  sign  is  the 
widening  the  sphere  of  human  sensibility,  for  the  delight, 
honour,  and  benefit  of  human  nature.1  Genius  is  the 

J5  introduction  of  a  new  element  into  the  intellectual  uni- 
verse :  or,  if  that  be  not  allowed,  it  is  the  application  of 
powers  to  objects  on  which  they  had  not  before  been  exer- 
cised, or  the  employment  of  them  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
produce  e^ffects  hitherto  unknown.  What  is  all  this  but  an 

20  advance,  or  a  conquest,  made  by  the  soul  of  the  poet?  Is 
it  to  be  supposed  that  the  reader  can  make  progress  of  this 
kind,  like  an  Indian  prince  or  general  —  stretched  on  his 
palanquin,  and  borne  by  his  slaves?  No;  he  is  invigorated 
and  inspirited  by  his  leader,  in  order  that  he  may  exert 
5  himself;  for  he  cannot  proceed  in  quiescence,  he  cannot  be 
carried  like  a  dead  weight.  Therefore^  to  create  taste  is 
to  call  forth  and  bestow  power,2  of  which  knowledge.. is  the 
effect;  and  there  lies  the  true  difficulty. , 

As  the  pathetic  participates  of  an  animal  sensation,  it 

3°  might  seem  —  that,  if  the  springs  of  this  emotion  were 
genuine,  all  men,  possessed  of  competent  knowledge  of  the 


SUPPLEMENTARY    TO    THE  PREFACE,    1815-1845.       91 

"^ 

facts  and  circumstances,  would  be  instantaneously  affected. 
And,  doubtless,   in  the  works  of  every  true  poet  will  be 
found   passages  of  that  species   of   excellence,   which  is 
proved  by  effects  immediate  and  universal.    \  But  there  are 
emotions  of  the  pathetic  that  are  simple  and  direct,  and    5 
others — that  are   complex  and  revolutionary;   some  —  to 
which  the  heart  yields   with  gentleness;  others  —  against 
which  it  struggles  with  pride;  these  varieties  are  infinite 
as  the  combinations  of  circumstance  and  the  constitutions 
of  character.  /  Remember,  also,   that  the  medium  through  10 
which,  in  poetry,  the  heart  is  to  be  affected  —  is  language;     ^ 
a  thing  subject  to  endless  fluctuations  and  arbitrary  associ-     \ 
ations.     The  genius  of  the  poet  melts  these  down  for  his 
purpose;  but  they  retain  their  shape  and  quality  to  him 
who  is  not  capable  of  exerting,  within  his  own  mind,  a  J5 
corresponding  energy.     There  is  also  a  meditative,  as  well 
as  a  human,  pathos;  an  enthusiastic,  as  well  as  an  ordinary, 
sorrow;  a  sadness  that  has  its  seat  in  the  depths  of  reason,  to 
which  the  mind  cannot  sink  gently  of  itself  —  but  to  which 
it  must  descend  by  treading  the  steps  of  thought.     And  20 
for  the  sublime, —  if  we  consider  what  are  the  cares  that 
occupy  the  passing  day,  and  how  remote  is  the  practice 
and  the  course  of  life  from  the  sources  of  sublimity  in  the 
soul  of  Man,  can  it  be  wondered  that  there  is  little  exist- 
ing preparation  for  a  poet  charged  with  a  new  mission  to  25 
extend  its  kingdom,  and  to  augment  and  spread  its  enjoy- 
ments ? 

Away,   then,   with  the  senseless  iteration  of  the  word 
popular,  applied  to  new  works  in  poetry,  as  if  there  were 
no  test  of  excellence  in  this  first  of  the  fine  arts  but  that  3° 
all  men  should  run  after  its  productions,  as  if  urged  by  an 


92  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

appetite,  or  constrained  by  a  spell!  —  The  qualities  of 
writing  best  fitted  for  eager  reception  are  either  such  as 
startle  the  world  into  attention  by  their  audacity  and 
extravagance;  or  they  are  chiefly  of  a  superficial  kind 

5  lying  upon  the  surfaces  of  manners;  or  arising  out  of  a 
selection  and  arrangement  of  incidents,  by  which  the  mind 
is  kept  upon  the  stretch  of  curiosity  and  the  fancy  amused 
without  the  trouble  of  thought.  (  But  in  every  thing  which 
is  to  send  the  soul  into  herself,  to  be  admonished  of  her 

10  weakness,  or  to  be  made  conscious  of  her  power:  —  wher- 
ever life  and  Nature  are  described  as  operated  upon  by 
the  creative  or  abstracting  virtue  of  the  imagination; 
wherever  the  instinctive  wisdom  of  antiquity  and  her  heroic 
passions  uniting,  in  the  heart  of  the  poet,  with  the  medi- 

1S  tative  wisdom  of  later  ages,  have  produced  that  accord  of 
sublimated  humanity,  which  is  at  once  a  history  of  the 
remote  past  and  a  prophetic  enunciation  of  the  remotest 
future,  there,  the  poet  must  reconcile  himself  for  a  season 
to  few  and  scattered  hearers.  —  Grand  thoughts  (and 

20  Shakspeare  must  often  have  sighed  over  this  truth),  as 
they  are  most  naturally  and  most  fitly  conceived  in  soli- 
tude, so  can  they  not  be  brought  forth  in  the  ^midst  of 
plaudits,  without  some  violation  of  their  sanctity.)  Ipo  to 

(  a  silent  exhibition  of  the  productions  of  the  Sister  l\rt,  and 

h  be  convinced  that  the  qualities  which  dazzle  at  first  sight, 
and  kindle  the  admiration  of  the  multitude,  are  essentially 
/  different  from  those  by  which  permanent  influence  is 
secured?^  Let  us  not  shrink  from  following  up  these  prin- 
ciples as  far  as  they  will  carry  us,  and  conclude  with 

3°  observing  —  that  there  never  has  been  a  period,  and  per- 
haps never  will  be,  in  which  vicious  poetry,  of  some  kind 


SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE   PREFACE,   1815-1845.       93 

or  other,  has  not  excited  more  zealous  admiration,  and 
been  far  more  generally  read,  than  good ;  but  this  advan- 
|  tage  attends  the  good,  that  the  individual,  as  well  as  the 
/  species,  survives  from  age  to  age;  whereas,  of  the  depraved, 
though  the  species  be  immortal,  the  individual  quickly  5 
perishes ;  the  object  of  present  admiration  vanishes,  being 
supplanted  by  some  other  as  easily  produced;  which, 
though  no  better,  brings  with  it  at  least  the  irritation  of 
novelty,  —  with  adaptation,  more  or  less  skilful,  to  the 
changing  humours  of  the  majority  of  those  who  are  most  10 
at  leisure  to  regard  poetical  works  when  they  first  solicit 
their  attention. 

Is  it  the  result  of  the  whole,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
Writer,  the  judgment  of  the  People  is  not  to  be  respected? 
The  thought  is  most  injurious;  and,  could  the  charge  be  J5 
brought  against  him,  he  would  repel  it  with  indignation. 
The  People  have  already  been  justified,  and  their  eulogium 
pronounced  by  implication,   when  it  was  said,  above  — 
that,  of  good  poetry,  the  individual,  as  well  as  the  species, 
survives.1    And  how  does  it  survive  but  through  the  People?  20 
What  preserves  it  but  their  intellect  and  their  wisdom? 

Past  and  future,  are  the  wings 

On  whose  support,  harmoniously  conjoined, 

Moves  the  great  Spirit  of  human  knowledge MS. 

The  voice  that  issues  from  this  Spirit,  is  that  Vox  Populi  25 
which  the  Deity  inspires.  Foolish  must  he  be  who  can 
mistake  for  this  a  local  acclamation,  or  a  transitory  outcry 
—  transitory  though  it  be  for  years,  local  though  from  a 
Nation.  Still  more  lamentable  is  his  error  who  can 
believe  that  there  is  anything  of  divine  infallibility  in  the  3° 


94  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

clamour  of  that  small  though  loud  portion  of  the  commu- 
nity, ever  governed  by  factitious  influence,  which,  under 
the  name  of  the  PUBLIC,  passes  itself,  upon  the  unthinking,, 
for  the  PEOPLE.  Towards  the  Public,  the  Writer  hopes 

5  that  he  feels  as  much  deference  as  it  is  entitled  to :  but  to- 
the  People,  philosophically  characterised,  and  tc  the 
embodied  spirit  of  their  knowledge,  so  far  as  it  exists  and 
moves,  at 'the  present,  faithfully  supported  by  its  two  wings, 
the  past  and  the  future,  his  devout  respect,  his  reverence,, 

10  is  due.  He  offers  it  willingly  and  readily;  and,  this  done, 
takes  leave  of  his  Readers,  by  assuring  them  —  that,  if  he 
were  not  persuaded  that  the  contents  of  these  Volumes, 
and  the  Work  to  which  they  are  subsidiary,  evince  some- 
thing of  the  'Vision  <tfxiJh£i~E^^  and  that, 

15  both  in  words  and  things,  they  will  operate  in  their  degree, 
to  extend  the  domain  of  sensibility  for  the  delight,  the 
honour,  and  the  benefit  of  human  nature,  notwithstanding 
the  many  happy  hours  which  he  has  employed  in  their 
composition,  and  the  manifold  comforts  and  enjoyments 

20  they  have  procured  to  him,  he  would  not,  if  a  wish  could 
do  it,  save  them  from  immediate  destruction;  —  from 
becoming  at  this  moment,  to  the  world,  as  a  thing  that  had 
never  been,1 


LETTER   TO    LADY   BEAUMONT. 


COLEORTON,  May  21,  1807, 
MY  DEAR  LADY  BEAUMONT, 

Though  I  am  to  see  you  so  soon,  I  cannot  but  write  a 
word  or  two,  to  thank  you  for  the  interest  you  take  in  my 
poems,  as  evinced  by  your  solicitude  about  their  immediate 
reception.  I  write  partly  to  thank  you  for  this,  and  to  ex-  5 
press  the  pleasure  it  has  given  me,  and  partly  to  remove 
any  uneasiness  from  your  mind  which  the  disappointments 
you  sometimes  meet  with,  in  this  labour  of  love,  may  occa- 
sion. I  see  that  you  have  many  battles  to  fight  for  me,  — 
more  than,  in  the  ardour  and  confidence  of  your  pure  and  i° 
elevated  mind,  you  had  ever  thought  of  being  summoned 
to ;  but  be  assured  that  this  opposition  is  nothing  more 
than  what  I  distinctly  foresaw  that  you  and  my  other  friends 
would  have  to  encounter.  I  say  this,  not  to  give  myself 
credit  for  an  eye  of  prophecy,  but  to  allay  any  vexatious  15 
thoughts  on  my  account  which  this  opposition  may  have 
produced  in  you. 

It  is  impossible  that  any  expectations  can  be  lower  than 
mine   concerning  the  immediate   effect  of  this  little  work 
upon  what  is  called  the  public.     I  do  not  here  take  into  20 
consideration  the  envy  and   malevolence,  and  all  the  bad 
passions  which  always  stand  in  the  way  of  a  work  of  any 

95 


96  WORDS  WOR  TfPS  PREFA  CES. 

merit  from  a  living  poet ; l  but  merely  think  of  the  pure, 
absolute,  honest  ignorance  in  which  all  worldlings  of  every 
rank  and  situation  must  be  enveloped,  with  respect  to  the 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  images,  on  which,  the  life  of  my 

5  poems  depends.  The  things  which  I  have  taken,  whether 
from  within  or  without,  what  have  they  to  do  with  routs, 
dinners,  morning  calls,  hurry  from  door  to  door,  from  street 
to  street,  on  foot  or  in  carriage/;  with  Mr.  Pitt  or  Mr.  Fox, 
Mr.  Paul  or  Sir  Francis  Buroett,  the  Westminster  election 

10  or  the  borough  of  Honiton?  in  a  word  —  for  I  cannot  stop 
to  make  my  way  through  the  hurry  of  images  that  present 
themselves  to  me  —  what  have  they  to  do  with  endless  talk- 
ing about  things  nobody  cares  anything  for  except  as  far 
as  their  own  vanity  is  concerned,  and  this  with  persons  they 

15  care  nothing  for  but  as  their  vanity  or  selfishness  is  con- 
cerned?—  what  have  they  to  do  (to  say  all  at  once)  with 
a  life  without  love?  In  such  a  life  there  can  be  no  thought ; 

v  for  we  have  no  thought  (save  thoughts  of  pain)  but  as  far 
as  we  have  love  and  admiration.  / 

20       It  is  an  awful  truth,  that  there  neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any 

genuine  enjoyment  of  poetry  among  nineteen  out  of  twenty 

/  of  those  persons  who  live,  or  wish  to  live,  in  the  broad  light 

of  the  world 2  —  among  those  who  either  are,  or  are  striving 

to  make  themselves,   people   of  consideration  in   society. 

25  This  is  a  truth,  and  an  awful  one,  because  to  be  incapable 
of  a  feeling  of  poetry,  in  my  sense  of  the  word,  is  to  be 
/without  love  of  human  nature  and  reverence  for  God. 

\_  Upon  this  I  shall  insist  elsewhere ;  at  present  let  me  con- 
fine myself  to  my  object,  which  is  to  make  you,  my  dear 

30  friend,  as  easy-hearted  as  myself  with  respect  to  these 
poems.  Trouble  not  yourself  upon  their  present  reception ; 


' 

LETTER    TO  LADY  BEAUMONT.  97 

of  what  moment  is  that  compared  with  what  I  trust  is  their 
destiny  ?  —  to  console  the  afflicted  ;  to  add  sunshine  to  day- 
light, by  making  the  happy  happier;    to  teach  the  young 
and  the  gracious  of  every  age  to  see,  to  think,  and  feel,  and,    ' 
therefore,  to  become  more  actively  and  securely  virtuous ;     5 
this  is  their  office,  which  I  trust  they  will  faithfully  perform, 
long  after  we  (that  is,  all  that  is  mortal  of  us)  are  mould- 
ered in  our  graves.1- jrl  am  well  aware  how  far  it  would  seem 
to  many  I  overrate  my  own  exertions,  when  I  speak  in  this 
way,  in  direct  connection  with  the  volume  I  have  just  made  10 
public.      ) 

I  am  not,  however,  afraid  of  such  censure,  insignificant  as 
probably  the  majority  of  those  poems  would  appear  to  very 
respectable  persons.  I  do  not  mean  London  wits  and  wjt- 
lings,  for  these  have  too  many  foul  passions  about  them  to  15 
be  respectable,  even  if  they  had  more  intellect  than  the 
benign  laws  of  Providence  will  allow  to  such  a  heartless 
existence  as  theirs  is ;  but  grave,  kindly-natured,  worthy 
persons,  who  would  be  pleased  if  they  could.  I  hope  that 
these  volumes  are  not  without  some  recommendations,  even  20 
for  readers  of  this  class  :  but  their  imagination  has  slept ; 
and  the  voice  which  is  the  voice  of  my  poetry,  ~  without 
imagination,  cannot  be  heard.  Leaving  these,  I  was  going 

to  say  a  word  to  such  readers  as  Mr. .     Such  !  —  how 

would  he  be  offended  if  he  knew  I  considered  him  only  as  25 
a  representative  of  a  class,  and  not  an  unique  !     'Pity,'  says 

Mr. '  that  so  many  trifling  things  should  be  admitted 

to  obstruct  the  view  of  those  that  have  merit.'     Now,  let 
this  candid  judge  take,  by  way  of  example,  the  sonnets, 
which,  probably,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  other  3° 
poems,  for  which  I  will   not  contend,  appear  to  him  the 


98  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

most  trifling,  as  they  are  the  shortest.  I  would  say  to  him, 
omitting  things  of  higher  consideration,  there  is  one  thing 
which  must  strike  you  at  once,  if  you  will  only  read  these 
poems,  —  that  those  '  to  Liberty]  at  least,  have  a  connec- 

5  tion  with,  or  a  bearing  upon,  each  other ;  and,  therefore,  if 
individually  they  want  weight,  perhaps,  as  a  body,  they  may 
not  be  so  deficient.  At  least,  this  ought  to  induce  you  to 
suspend  your  judgment,  and  qualify  it  so  far  as  to  allow 
that  the  writer  aims  at  least  at  comprehensiveness. 

10  But,  dropping  this,  I  would  boldly  say  at  once,  that  these 
sonnets,  while  they  each  fix  the  attention  upon  some  impor- 
tant sentiment,  separately  considered,  do,  at  the  same  time, 
collectively  make  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  civil  liberty  and 
national  independence,  which,  either  for  simplicity  of  style 

J5  or  grandeur  of  moral  sentiment,  is,  alas  !  likely  to  have  few 
parallels  in  the  poetry  of  the  present  day.1  Again,  turn  to 
the  '  Moods  of  my  own  Mind}  There  is  scarcely  a  poem 
here  of  above  thirty  lines,  and  very  trifling  these  poems  will 
appear  to  many ;  but,  omitting  to  speak  of  them  individu- 

20  ally,  do  they  not,  taken  collectively,  fix  the  attention  upon 
a  subject  eminently  poetical,  viz.,  the  interest  which  objects 
in  Nature  derive  from  the  predominance  of  certain  affec- 
tions, more  or  less  permanent,  more  or  less  capable  of  salu- 
tary renewal  in  the  mind  of  the  being  contemplating  these 

25  objects?  This  is  poetic,  and  essentially  poetic.  And  why? 
Because  it  is  creative.  .  .  . 

My  letter  (as  this  second  sheet,  which  I  am  obliged  to 
take,  admonishes  me)  is  growing  to  an  enormous  length; 
and  yet,  saving  that  I  have  expressed  my  calm  confidence 

3°  that  these  poems  will  live,  I  have  said  nothing  which  has 
a  particular  application  to  the  object  of  it,  which  was  to 


LETTER    TO   LADY  BEAUMONT.  99 

remove  all  disquiet  from  your  mind  on  account  of  the  con- 
demnation they  may  at  present  incur  from  that  portion  of 
my  contemporaries  who  are  called  the  public.     I  am  sure, 
my  dear  Lady  Beaumont,  if  you  attach  any  importance  to 
it,  it  can  only  be  from  an  apprehension  that  it  may  affect    5 
me,  upon  which  I  have  already  set  you  at  ease ;  or  from  a 
fear  that  this  present   blame  is  ominous  of  their  future  or 
final  destiny.     If  this  be  the  case,  your  tenderness  for  me 
betrays  you.     Be  assured  that  the  decision  of  these  persons 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question ;   they  are  altogether  10 
incompetent  judges.     These  people,  in  the  senseless  hurry 
of  their  idle  lives,  do  not   read  books,  they  merely  snatch 
a  glance  at  them,  that  they  may  talk  about  them.1     And 
even  if  this  were  not  so,  never  forget  what,  I  believe,  was 
observed  to  you  by  Coleridge,  that  every  great  and  original  X5 
writer,  in  proportion  as  he  is  great  or  original,  must  himself    j 
create  the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  relished ;  he  must    / 
teach  the  art  by  which  he  is  to  be  seen ;  this,  in  a  certain 
degree,  even  to  all  persons,  however  wise  and  pure  may 
be  their  lives,  and  however  unvitiated  their  taste.     But  for  20 
those  who  dip  into  books  in  order  to  give  an  opinion  of 
them,  or  talk  about  them  to  take  up  an  opinion  —  for  this 
multitude  of  unhappy,  and  misguided,  and  misguiding  beings, 
an  entire  regeneration  must  be  produced ;   and  if  this  be 
possible,  it  must  be  a  work  of  time.     To  conclude,  my  ears  25 
are  stone-dead  to  this  idle  buzz,  and  my  flesh  as  insensible 
as  iron  to  these  petty  stings ;  and,  after  what  I  have  said,  I 
am  sure  yours  will  be  the  same.     I  doubt  not  that  you  will 
share  with  me   an  invincible   confidence  that  my  writings 
(and  among  them  these  little  poems)  will  co-operate  with  3° 
the  benign  tendencies  in  human  nature  and  society,  wher- 


100  WORDSWORTH'S  PREFACES. 

ever  found ;  and  that  they  will,  in  their  degree,  be  effica- 
cious in  making  men  wiser,  better,  and  happier.1  Farewell  ! 
I  will  not  apologise  for  this  letter,  though  its  length  demands 
an  apology.  Believe  me,  eagerly  wishing  for  the  happy  day 
5  when  I  shall  see  you  and  Sir  George  here, 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

W.  WORDSWORTH. 


NOTES. 


PREFACE  (1800-1845). 

PAGE  i,  1.  7.  I.  Cf.  "Advertisement,"  Lyrical  Ballads  (1798)  :  "The 
majority  of  the  following  poems  are  to  be  considered  as  experiments. 
They  were  written  chiefly  with  a  view  to  ascertain  how  far  the  language 
of  conversation  in  the  middle  and  lower  classes  of  society  is  adapted  to 
the  purposes  of  poetic  pleasure." 

Line  16.  2.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "  Wordsworth  "  :  "I  firmly 
believe  that  the  poetical  performance  of  Wordsworth  is,  after  that  of 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  of  which  all  the  world  now  recognizes  the  worth, 
undoubtedly  the  most  considerable  in  our  language  from  the  Elizabethan 
age  to  the  present  time." 

Coleridge,  Biographia  Liter  aria,  162:  "I  cannot  likewise  but  add 
that  the  comparison  of  such  poems  of  merit  as  have  been  given  to  the 
public  within  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years,  with  the  majority  of  those  pro- 
duced previously  to  the  appearance  of  that  Preface,  leave  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  is  fully  justified  in  believing  his  efforts  to  have 
been  by  no  means  ineffectual." 

Pater,  Appreciations,  40:  "Those  who  have  undergone  his  (Words- 
worth's) influence  are  like  people  who  have  passed  through  some  initiation, 
a  disciplina  Arcani,  by  submitting  to  which  they  become  able  constantly 
to  distinguish  in  art,  speech,  feeling,  manners,  that  which  is  organic, 
animated,  expressive,  from  that  which  is  only  conventional,  derivative, 
inexpressive." 

P.  2,  1.  3.  I.  Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Liter  aria,  36:  "  In  the  critical 
remarks,  prefixed  and  annexed  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  I  believe  that  we 

101 


102  NOTES. 

may  safely  rest,  as  the  true  origin  of  the  unexampled  opposition  which 
Mr.  Wordsworth's  writings  have  been  since  doomed  to  encounter." 

Knight,  Life  of  Wordsworth,  X.,  329:  "The  Preface  was  written  at  the 
request  of  Mr.  Coleridge."  —  W.  W. 

P.  3,  1.  18.  I.  These  lines  are  from  "  Advertisement  "  to  lyrical  Ballads 
(1798).  Cf.  Robertson,  Lectures  ana  Addresses,  92:  "But  of  course  if 
you  lead  a  sensual  life,  or  a  mercenary  or  artificial  life,  you  will  not  read 
these  truths  in  nature.  A  pure  heart  and  a  simple,  manly  life  alone  can 
reveal  to  you  all  that  which  seer  and  poet  saw." 

Sir  Henry  Taylor,  Critical  Essays  on  Poetry,  46 :  "  For  an  ear  which 
knows  of  no  other  rhythmical  music  than  the  unqualified  up  and  down 
movement  of  trochees  and  iambs,  or  the  canter  of  anapests,  the  '  numerous 
verse  '  of  Wordsworth  will  have  been  modulated  in  vain." 

P.  4,  1.  10.  I.  These  lines  were  written  in  1802  and  are  the  develop- 
ment of  the  following,  written  in  1798  and  1800  respectively:  "The 
majority  of  the  following  poems  are  to  be  considered  as  experiments. 
They  were  written  chiefly  with  a  view  to  ascertain  how  far  the  language 
of  conversation  in  the  middle  and  lower  classes  of  society  is  adapted  to 
the  purposes  of  poetic  pleasure."  —  Advertisement  (1798). 

"  The  principal  object,  then,  which  I  proposed  to  myself  in  these 
poems  was  to  make  the  incidents  of  common  life  interesting  by  tracing  in 
them,  truly  though  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary  laws  of  our  nature, 
chiefly  as  far  as  regards  the  manner  in  which  we  associate  ideas  in  a  state 
of  excitement."  —  Preface  (1800). 

"The  knowledge  of  nature  is  only  half  the  task  of  a  poet;  he  must 
be  acquainted  likewise  with  all  modes  of  life.  His  character  requires  that  he 
estimate  the  happiness  and  misery  of  every  condition."  —  JOHNSON,  Rasselas. 

"Imitative  art  in  its  highest  form  —  poetry  —  is  an  expression  of  the 
universal  element  in  human  life."  —  ARISTOTLE,  Poetics. 

L.  23.  2.  "There  is  nothing  that  exists,  except  things  ignoble  and  mean, 
in  which  the  true  poet  may  not  find  himself  at  home,  —  in  the  open  sights 
of  nature,  in  the  occult  secrets  of  science,  in  the  quicquid  agtmt  homines, 
in  men's  character  and  fortunes,  in  their  actions  and  sufferings,  their  joys 
and  sorrows.  .  .  .  Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  pour  know  how  much 
of  that  feeling  language,  which  is  the  essence  of  poetry,  may  be  heard 
under  cottage  roofs."  —  SHAIRP,  Aspects  of  Poetry. 


PREFACE  (1800-1845).  103 

"  In  every  parish  there  is  a  whole  Iliad  of  action  and  of  passion,  if  we 
have  been  taught  to  trace  their  workings  by  one  of  those  men  whom  nature 
has  chosen  for  her  expositors."  —  DE  VERE,  Essays,  Literary  and  Ethical. 

"  Poetry  is  essentially  of  the  people  and  for  the  people."  —  F.  W. 
ROBERTSON,  Lectures  and  Addresses. 

Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Ltteraria,  1 68:  "To  this  I  reply  that  a  rus- 
tic's language,  purified  from  all  provincialism  and  grossness,  and  so  far 
reconstructed  as  to  be  made  consistent  with  the  rules  of  grammar,  will  not 
differ  from  the  language  of  any  other  man  of  common  sense,  however 
learned  or  refined  he  may  be,  except  so  far  as  the  notions  which  the  rustic 
has  to  convey  are  fewer  and  more  indiscriminate." 

P.  5,  1.  9.  i.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  19:  "  And  the  poet,  instead 
of  adopting  the  approved  diction  of  poets,  or  coining  tropes  and  images 
of  his  own,  cannot  do  better  than  adopt  the  language  of  genuine  emotion, 
as  it  comes  warm  from  the  lips  of  suffering  men  and  women." 

L.  25.  2.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  22:  "The  impulse  to  poetic 
composition  is,  I  believe,  in  the  first  instance  spontaneous,  almost  uncon- 
scious; and  where  the  inspiration,  as  we  call  it,  is  most  strong  and  deep, 
there  a  conscious  purpose  is  least  apparent."  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  ^Poetry, 

39-  5~12- 

L.  27.  3.  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  2.  1-3;  10.  8-9.  Cf.  Shairp, 
Aspects  of  Poetry,  41  :  "  Philosophers,  who  themselves,  gifted  with  imagina- 
tion,  understand  its  ways  of  working,  acknowledge  that  there  is  about  the 
origin  of  the  poetic  impulse  something  which  defies  analysis,  —  born  not 
taught,  —  inexplicable  and  mysterious.  Plato's  few  words  upon  it  in  Ion 
are  worth  all  Aristotle's  methodical  treatise  on  poetry." 

P.  6,  1.  4.  i.    Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  10.  5-7;    14.  6-10. 

L.  24.  2.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "  Byron  " :  "  Wordsworth's 
simplicity  is  in  the  power  with  which  he  feels  the  resources  of  joy  offered 
to  us  in  nature,  offered  to  us  in  the  primary  human  affections  and  duties, 
and  in  the  jDOwer  with  which,  in  his  moments  of  inspiration,  he  renders 
this  joy  and  makes  us,  too,  feel  it.  ...  But  for  poetry  the  idea  is  every- 
thing; the  rest  is  a  wr-ld  of  illusion."  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  17: 
"  You  admire  Homer,  yEschylus,  Shakespeare,  perhaps  Scott  and  Words- 
worth and  Shelley,  but  where  did  these  get  their  inspiration?  ...  by 
going  straight  to  the  true  sources  of  all  poetry,  by  knowing  and  loving 


104  NOTES. 

nature,  by  acquaintance  with  their  own  hearts,  and  by  knowledge  of  their 
fellow-men." 

P.  7,  1.  4.  i.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  12 :  "To  appeal  to  the  higher 
side  of  human  nature,  and  to  strengthen  it,  to  come  ,to  its  rescue  when  it 
is  overborne  by  worldliness  and  material  interests,  to  support  it  by  great 
truths,  set  forth  in  their  most  attractive  form,  —  this  is  the  only  worthy 
aim,  the  adequate  end  of  all  poetic  endeavor."  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of 
Poetry,  46.  4-6. 

L.  19.  2.  Cf.  Bagehot,  Literary  Stttdies,  II.,  389:  "A  dressy  literature, 
an  exaggerated  literature,  seem  to  be  fated  to  us;  these  are  our  curses." 
Harrison,  Choice  of  Books,  23 :  "  If  you  find  Milton,  Dante,  Calderon, 
Goethe,  so  much  Hebrew-Greek  to  you;  if  your  Homer  and  Virgil,  your 
Moliere  and  Scott  rest  year  after  year  undisturbed,  .  .  .  and  you  are  wont 
to  leave  the  Bible  and  the  Imitation  for  some  wet  Sunday  afternoon  .  .  . 
your  mental  digestion  is  ruined  or  sadly  out  of  order." 

P.  8,  1.  10.  i.    Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  Ch.  V. 

L.  13.  2.  Aristotle  says,  "  Art  imitates  nature,"  but  by  imitation  he 
means,  not  copying,  but  a  creative  act  by  which  the  various  elements  are 
united  into  an  organic  wrhole,  —  an  ideal.  How  extremely  difficult  this 
creative  imitation  is  has  been  beautifully  expressed  by  Sir  Henry  Taylor  :  — 

"  'Tis  a  speech 

That  by  a  language  of  familiar  lowness 
Enhances  what  of  more  heroic  vein 
Is  next  to  follow.     But  one  fault  it  hath  ; 
It  fits  too  close  to  life's  realities, 
In  truth  to  Nature,  missing  truth  to  Art."  —  A  Sicilian  Summer. 

Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Liter  aria,  162.  31  et  seq. 

L.  27.  3.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "Wordsworth":  "Words- 
worth's poetry,  when  he  is  at  his  best,  is  inevitable,  as  inevitable  as  nature 
herself.  It  might  seem  that  nature  not  only  gave  him  the  matter  for  his 
poem,  but  wrote  his  poem  for  him,"  Cf.  Newman,  Poetry  with  Reference 
to  Aristotle's  Poetics,  27.  6-15;  Sidney,  Defence  of  Poesy,  u.  8-12. 

P.  9,  1.  3.  i.  Wordsworth  here  agrees  with  Aristotle  who  was  the  first 
critic  to  insist  that  poetry  is  an  emotional  delight,  its  end  to  give  pleasure. 
Of  course  here  Aristotle  distinguishes  between  the  higher  and  lower  forms 
of  pleasure,  and  means  aesthetic  delight  coming  from  contemplating  the 


PREFACE   (1800-1845).  105 

beautiful.  Cf.  Butcher,  Glimpses  of  Greek  Genius,  for  a  study^of  Aristotle's 
idea.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  II:  "As  to  the  aim  which  the  poets 
set  before  him,  the  end  which  poetry  is  meant  to  fulfil,  what  shall  be  said? 
Here  the  critics,  ancient  and  modern,  answer  almost  with  one  voice,  that 
the  end  is  to  give  pleasure."  Cf.  Dallas,  Gay  Science,  Ch.  V.;  Sidney, 
Defence  of  Poesy,  9.  12-16;  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  n.  16-12.  7. 

L.  7.  2.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "  Gray  "  :  "  The  language  of 
genuine  poetry  is  the  language  of  one  composing  with  his  eye  on  the  sub- 
ject; its  evolution  that  of  a  thing  which  has  been  plunged  into  the  poet's 
soul  until  it  comes  forth  naturally  and  necessarily." 

L.  12.  3.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "Wordsworth":  "Long  ago 
in  speaking  of  Homer,  I  said  that  the  noble  and  profound  application  of 
ideas  to  life  is  the  most  essential  part  of  poetic  greatness."  Cf.  Newman, 
Aristotle's  Poetics,  22.  15-30. 

L.  31.  4.  Cf.  Newman,  Aristotle's  Poetics,  12.  16-20;  Shelley,  Defense 
of  Poetry,  9.  5-7.  Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Literaria,  Ch.  XXL  "The 
strength  of  poetry  is  in  its  thought,  not  in  its  form;  and  with  great 
lyrists,  their  music  is  always  secondary,  and  their  substance,  primary.  — 
RUSKIN. 

"  Readers  of  superior  judgment  may  disapprove  of  the  style  in  which 
many  of  these  pieces  are  executed.  It  must  be  expected  that  many  lines 
and  phrases  will  not  exactly  suit  their  taste.  It  will  perhaps  appear  to  them 
that,  wishing  to  avoid  the  prevalent  fault  of  the  day,  the  author  has  some- 
times descended  too  low,  and  that  many  of  his  expressions  are  too  familiar, 
and  not  of  sufficient  dignity."  —  Advertisement  (1798). 

P.  10,  1.  7.  I.  Aristotle  in  his  Poetics  places  little  stress  on  the  idea  that 
metre  is  essential  to  poetry.  Says  Professor  Butcher,  "  It  seems  that  he 
was  inclined  to  extend  the  meaning  of  the  word  poet  to  include  any  prose 
writer  whose  work  was  an  '  imitation  '  (creation)  within  the  artistic  mean- 
ing of  the  term."  Keble  says,  "  This  notion  of  the  uses  of  metre  as  sub- 
sidiary to  the  end  we  attribute  to  poetry  may  seem  to  be  confirmed  by 
references  to  the  compositions  to  which  the  term  poetry  is  applied  without 
any  sort  of  metre."  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  9.  5-7;  Sidney, 
Defence  of  Poesy,  II.  4-25;  Coleridge,  Biographia  Literaria,  149.  28 
et  seq. 

P.  n,  1.  9.  I.    Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Literaria,  182.  9  et  seq.     "A 


106  NOTES. 

poet  should  think  like  a  genius,  but  talk  the  same  language  as  any  one 
else."  —  SCHOPENHAUER,  Art  in  Literature. 

L.  12.  2.  "  It  might  have  been  foreseen  that,  in  the  rotations  of  mind, 
the  province  of  poetry  in  prose  would  find  its  assertor.  .  .  .  Prose  will 
exert  in  due  measure  all  the  varied  charms  of  poetry  down  to  the  rhythm 
which,  as  in  Cicero,  Michelet,  or  Newman,  gives  its  musical  value  to 
every  syllable."  —  PATER.  Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Liter  aria,  170.  25 
et  seq.;  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  9.  5-7;  Sidney,  Defence  of  Poesy,  II. 
8-25.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  51  :  "I  grant  that  the  old  limits  between 
prose  and  poetry  tend  to  disappear."  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  Ch. 
XIV.  Whipple  says  of  Emerson,  "  His  greatest  poetic  achievements  have 
been  in  prose." 

P.  12,  1.  14.  I.  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  7.  3  et  seq.  Pater,  Appre- 
ciations, 6  :  "  All  beauty  is,  in  the  long  run,  only  fineness  of  truth,  or  what 
we  call  expression,  the  finer  accumulation  of  speech  to  the  vision  within." 
Cf.  Bagehot,  Literary  Studies,  II. :  The  Pure,  Ornate,  and  Grotesque  in 
Art  and  Poetry. 

P.  13,  1.  20.  I.  "It  was  part  of  Wordsworth's  great  message  to  this 
country  to  remind  us  that  the  sphere  of  the  poet  is  not  only  in  the  extraor- 
dinary, but  in  the  ordinary  and  common."  —  Rev.  F.  W.  ROBERTSON. 

Pater,  Appreciations,  12 :  "  Great  mental  force  certainly  was  needed  by 
Wordsworth  to  break  through  the  consecrated  poetic  associations  of  a 
century  and  speak  the  language  that  was  his,  that  was  to  become  in  a 
measure  the  language  of  the  next  generation." 

L.  24.  2.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  8  :  "A  great  poet  must  be  a  man 
made  wise  by  large  experience,  much  feeling,  and  deep  reflection;  above 
all,  he  must  have  a  hold  of  the  great  central  truth  of  things."  Cf.  Cole- 
ridge, Biographia  Literaria,  148:  "A  poem  is  that  species  of'composition 
which  is  opposed  to  works  of  science,  by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object 
pleasure,  not  truth;  and  from  all  other  species  (having  this  object  in 
common  with  it)  it  is  discriminated  by  proposing  to  itself  such  delight 
from  the  whole  as  is  compatible  with  a  distinct  gratification  from  each 
component  part."  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  38.  16  et  seq.;  Sidney, 
Defence  of  Poesy,  31.  18-32.  7;  Tennyson,  The  Poet. 

P.  15,  1.  2.  I.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  3:  "He  does  not  feel 
differently  from  other  men,  but  he  feels  more." 


PREFACE  (1800-1845).  107 

"A  work  of  art  is  an  idealised  copy  of  human  life,  —  of  character,  emo- 
tion, action,  —  under  forms  manifest  to  sense."  —  BUTCHER. 

"  Poetry  has  ever  recognised  these  two  great  offices,  distinct  though 
allied,  —  the  one,  that  of  representing  the  actual  world;  the  other,  that  of 
creating  an  ideal  region,  into  which  spirits  whom  this  world  has  wearied 
may  retire.  ...  A  perfect  poet  ought  to  discharge  both  these  great 
offices  of  poetry." — DE  VERE,  Two  Schools  of  Poetry.  Cf.  Newman, 
Aristotle's  Poetics,  1 1.  4-10;  Coleridge,  Biographia  Literaria,  150.  5 
et  seq. 

L.  13.  2.  "  Depend  upon  it,  you  would  gain  unspeakably  if  you  would 
learn  with  me  to  see  some  of  the  poetry  and  the  pathos,  the  tragedy  and 
the  comedy,  lying  in  the  experience  of  a  human  soul  that  looks  out  through 
dull  gray  eyes,  and  that  speaks  in  a  voice  of  quite  ordinary  tones."  — 
GEORGE  ELIOT. 

L.  27.  3.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticis?n.  The  Study  of  Poetry,  55  : 
"  Good  literature  never  will  lose  currency  with  the  world ;  in  spite  of 
momentary  appearances,  it  never  will  lose  supremacy.  Currency  and 
supremacy  are  insured  to  it  ...  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  in 
humanity." 

P.  16,  1.  I.  I.  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  9.  33-11.  7;  Sidney^ 
Defence  of  Poesy,  13.  6-26.  II;  Coleridge,  Biographia  Liter  aria,  155. 

De  Vere,  Essays,  Literary  and  Ethical,  10 :  "  Poetry  is  but  the  flashing 
eye  and  philosophy  the  brooding  brow,  of  one  and  the  same  contemplative 
Intelligence." 

Leslie  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  1 78 :  "  Under  every  poetry,  it  has 
been  said,  there  lies  a  philosophy.  Rather,  it  may  almost  be  said,  every 
poetry  is  philosophy." 

"  Poetry  is  more  philosophic  and  of  higher  worth  than  history."  — 
ARISTOTLE,  Poetics.  Both  poetry  and  philosophy  deal  with  the  universal, 
and  have  their  meeting-point  in  it;  the  one  expresses  the  universal  through 
the  imagination,  the  other  through  the  reason. 

L.  7.  2.  "  It  is  the  poet's  function  to  relate  not  what  has  happened, 
but  what  may  happen  according  to  the  law  of  necessary  sequence."  — 
ARISTOTLE,  Poetics. 

"  Art  commends  not  counterparts  and  copies, 
But  from  our  life  a  nobler  life  would  shape  : 


108  NOTES. 

Bodies  celestial  from  terrestrial  raise, 
And  teach  us  not  jujunely  what  we  are, 
But  what  we  may  be,  when  the  Parian  block 
Yields  to  the  hand  of  Phidias." 

—  Sir  H.  TAYLOR,  A  Sicilian  Summer. 

L.  16.3.  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  n.  15;  Newman,  Aristotle's 
Poetics,  10.6-7;  Dallas,  Gay  Science ;  The  Agreement  of  the  Critics. 

L.  21.  4.  Aristotle  in  his  Ethics  implies  that  it  is  to  the  man  of  moral 
insight  that  ethical  questions  are  to  be  submitted,  and  in  his  Poetics  he 
implies  that  it  is  to  the  man  of  sure  and  sound  appreciation  that  the  question 
of  taste  is  to  be  submitted.  In  either  case  the  judgment  will  be  immediate. 

P.  17,  1.  26,  I.  Cf.  Excursion,  Proem,  On  Man,  on  Nature,  etc.  "The 
whole  grand  idea  is  that  God  has  made  these  two  —  man  and  nature  —  for 
one  another  and  to  develop  each  other;  and  this  mighty  object  is,  that  we 
should  realize,  in  the  marriage  of  the  mind  and  the  external  world,  the 
pre-arranged  harmony.  It  is  a  sketch  which  is  rilled  up  in  various  ways  in 
the  minor  poems.  It  forms  the  true  burden  of  the  '  Excursion  '  and  the 
*  Prelude.'  "  —  STOPFORD  BROOKE,  Theology  in  the  English  Poets. 

P.  18,  1.  II.  I.    Cf.  Arnold,  Discourses  in  America,  "  Numbers." 

P.  19,  I.  I.  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  38.  16;  Sidney,  Defence  of 
Poesy,  57.  1-27.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "Wordsworth":  "It  is 
important,  therefore,  to  hold  fast  to  this :  that  poetry  is  at  bottom  a  criti- 
cism of  life;  that  the  greatness  of  a  poet  lies  in  his  powerful  and  beautiful 
application  of  ideas  to  life,  —  to  the  question,  How  to  live?"  Cf. 
Symonds,  J.  A.,  Essays,  Speculative  and  Suggestive  :  "  Is  Poetry  a  Criticism 
of  Life?" 

L.  21.  2.  Science  deals  with  facts;  poetry  with  truths.  Facts  reveal 
what  has  been;  truths  what  must  be.  Lowell  {Latest  Literary  Essays, 
183),  says,  "The  more  she  (science)  makes  one  lobe  of  the  brain  Aris- 
totelian, so  much  more  will  the  other  intrigue  for  an  invitation  to  the 
banquet  of  Plato." 

Stopford  Brooke,  Theology  in  English  Poets  :  "  Wordsworth  disliked, 
as  much  as  Socrates  did,  the  people  who  would  believe  in  nothing  or  con- 
sider nothing  but  that  which  lay  before  their  eyes."  Cf.  "  Wordsworth's 
Relation  to  Science,"  Wordsworth  Society  Transactions. 

L.  27.  3.   Cf.   Pater,  Appreciations,  15:  "A  true  artist  will  remember 


PREFACE   (1800-1845).  109 

that,  as  the  very  word  ornament  indicates  what  is  in  itself  non-essential,  so 
the  *  one  beauty  '  of  all  literary  style  is  of  its  very  essence  and  independent, 
in  prose  and  verse  alike,  of  all  removable  decoration." 

P.  20,  1.  21.  I.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "  Maurice  de  Guerin  "  : 
"Poetry  interprets  in  two  ways;  it  interprets  by  expressing  with  magical 
felicity  the  physiognomy  and  movement  of  the  outward  world,  and  it 
interprets  by  expressing,  with  inspired  conviction,  the  ideas  and  laws  of 
the  inward  world  of  man's  moral  and  spiritual  nature.  In  other  words, 
poetry  is  interpretative,  both  by  having  natural  magic  in  it  and  by  having 
moral  profundity ." 

P.  21,  1.  25.  i.  Cf.  Pater,  Appreciations:  "With  him  (Wordsworth) 
metre  is  but  an  additional  grace,  accessory  to  that  deeper  music  of  words 
and  sounds,  that  moving  power,  which  they  exercise  in  the  nobler  prose, 
no  less  than  in  formal  poetry."  Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Liter  aria,  186. 
II.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  "  Prose  Poets." 

P.  25,  1.  12.  I.  Cf.  Ruskin,  The  Imagination;  Modern  Painters,  Vol. 
II.,  part  III.,  Chs.  I.-IV. 

L.  31.  2.  Cf.  Newman,  Aristotle's  Poetics,  15.  20  et  seq. ;  Wordsworth, 
Tintern  Abbey,  Daffodils,  Ode  On  Intimations  of  Immortality ;  Myers' 
Life  of  Wordsworth,  144.  Dallas,  Gay  Science,  I.,  318:  "Given  the 
magic  words,  given  the  magic  touch  .  .  .  and  all  good  poetry  and  art  will 
force  the  burial  places  of  memory  to  render  up  their  dead.  .  .  .  The 
poetry  of  Wordsworth  abounds  with  passages  that  vividly  refer  to  the  con- 
cealed life  of  the  mind  and  the  secret  of  poetry." 

"Aristotle  says  its  origin  is  in  the  after  effect  of  a  sensation,  the  con- 
tinued presence  of  an  impression  after  the  object  which  first  excited  it 
has  been  withdrawn  from  actual  experience."  —  WALLACE,  Aristotle 's 
Psychology. 

Dowden,  Transcripts  and  Studies,  114,  115:  "His  creative  mood  was 
itself  a  return  upon  some  moment  or  season  of  involuntary  rapture  or 
vision." 

P.  26,  1.  23.  i.  "Poetry  must  have  truth  and  seriousness  in  subject, 
felicity  and  perfection  in  form."  —  ARNOLD. 

P.  27,  1.  1 8.  I.  Cf.  Dowden,  Transcripts  and  Studies',  143:  "Not  a 
few  of  the  later  readings  in  Wordsworth's  text  had  their  origin  in  the 
writer's  wish  to  temper  some  expression  which  seemed  too  harsh  or  violent, 


110  NOTES. 

to  bring  within  bounds  some  extravagance,  or  to  tone  down  into  harmony 
with  its  surroundings  some  line  of  crude  vividness." 

P.  28,  1.  23.  i.  Mr.  Myers,  in  comparing  this  Preface  with  that  of  the 
edition  of  1815,  says:  "His  first  Preface  is  violently  polemic.  ...  In 
his  Preface  of  1815  he  is  not  less  severe  on  false  se'ntiment  and  false 
observation.  But  his  views  of  the  complexity  and  dignity  of  poetry  have 
been  much  developed,  and  he  is  willing  now  to  draw  his  favorable  instances 
(not  from  Babes  in  the  Wood},  but  from  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Virgil,  and 
himself."  Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Liter  aria,  178. 

P.  29,  1.  22.  I.  Cf.  Dowden,  Transcripts  and  Studies ;  Interpretation 
of  Literature ;  J.  A.  Symonds,  Essays,  Speculative  and  Suggestive,  I., 
98;  On  Some  Principles  of  Criticism;  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  6. 
Robertson,  Lectures  and  Addresses,  163:  "And  here  lies  the  great  diffi- 
culty, the  peculiar  difficulty  of  our  age;  it  is  an  age  of  cant,  without  love, 
of  criticism,  without  reverence.  .  .  .  What  we  want  is  the  old  spirit  of 
our  forefathers;  the  firm  conviction  that  not  by  criticism,  but  by  sympathy, 
we  must  understand." 


APPENDIX  (1802-1845). 

P.  33,  1.  12.  I.  Cf.  Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  5.  8-14;  Sidney,  Defence 
of  Poesy,  2.  27-30. 

L.  20.  2.  Cf.  De  Vere,  Essays,  Literary  and  Ethical:  "Literature 
begins  by  being  a  Vocation  or  an  Art;  it  becomes  subsequently  a  Profes- 
sion; in  its  decline  it  sinks  into  a  Trade." 

Cf.  Keats,  Sleep  and  Poetry  /  — 

"A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  Poesy." 

P.  34,  1.  22.  I.  Cf.  Lowell,  Latest  Literary  Essays,  2:  "Diction  was 
expected  to  do  for  imagination  what  only  imagination  could  do  for  it,  and 
the  magic  which  was  personal  to  the  magician  was  supposed"  to  reside  in 
the  formula." 

P.  35^  1.  30.  I.  Cf.  Corson,  Introduction  to  Browning,  "  Spiritual  Ebb 
and  Flow  in  English  Poetry." 


SUPPLEMENTARY  ESSAY  (1815-1845).  Ill 

PREFACE  (1815-1845). 

P.  41,  1.  19.  2.  Cf.  Sidney,  Defence  of  Poesy,  26.  12-31.  17.  Pastoral, 
elegiac,  iambic,  satiric,  comedy,  tragedy,  the  lyric,  the  epic. 

P.  43,  1.  21.  I.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Wordsworth's  classification  of 
his  poems  was  the  correct  one.  Mr.  Arnold  attempted  a  revision,  but  it 
can  hardly  be  considered  as  an  improvement.  Professor  Knight  has  used 
the  chronologicai  arrangement  in  his  edition  of  the  poet's  works,  and  with 
good  reason,  we  think,  as  his  plan  is  to  present  the  growth  of  Words- 
worth's mind  and  art. 

P.  45,  1.  25.  i.  Cf.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Literaria,  Ch.  IV.;  Dallas, 
Gay  Science,  I.,  Ch.  VI.;  Ruskin,  Modern  Painters,  Vol.  II.,  Chs.  I.-IV. 

P-  55t  !•  7»  *•  "Fancy  plays  like  a  squirrel  in  its  circular  prison,  and 
is  happy;  but  Imagination  is  a  pilgrim  on  the  earth,  and  her  home  in 
heaven."  —  RUSKIN. 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY   TO    THE  PREFACE  (1815-1845). 

P.  59,  1.  13.  I.  The  nation,  as  the  individual,  has  three  periods  in  its 
relation  to  poetry  and  art:  first,  youth,  or  the  heroic,  creative  period; 
second,  manhood,  or  the  materialistic  and  critical  period;  and  third, 
when  there  is  a  return  to  the  early  joys  and  loves,  on  the  part  of  some. 
Wordsworth  expresses  this  in 

"  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky ; 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die !  " 

L.  17.  2.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "The  Study  of  Poetry": 
"  We  should  conceive  of  poetry  worthily,  and  more  worthily  than  it  has 
been  the  custom  to  conceive  of  it.  We  should  conceive  of  it  as  capable 
of  higher  uses,  and  called  to  higher  destinies  than  those  which  in  general 
men  have  assigned  to  it  hitherto.  More  and  more  mankind  will  discover 
that  we  have  to  turn  to  poetry  to  interpret  life  for  us,  to  console  us,  to 
sustain  us." 


112  NOTES. 

P.  60, 1.  31.  I.  Cf.  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "  The  Study  of  Poetry  "  : 
"  But  if  we  conceive  thus  highly  of  the  destinies  of  poetry,  we  must  also 
set  our  standard  for  poetry  high,  since  poetry  to  be  capable  of  fulfilling 
such  high  destinies  must  be  poetry  of  a  high  order  of  excellence." 
Lowell,  Democracy  and  other  Essays,  116:  "The  first  lesson  in  reading 
well  is  that  which  teaches  us  to  distinguish  between  literature  and  merely 
printed  matter." 

P.  61,  1.  28.  I.  "The  thoughts  which  inspire  a  vigorous  literature  are 
those  which  have  been  quickened  by  experience.  .  .  .  Action  and  suffer- 
ing, not  abstraction,  bequeath  experience,  and  experience  communicates 
reality  to  thought."  —  DE  VERE,  Literature  in  its  Social  Aspects. 

"  That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 
Have  followed ;  for  such  loss  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.  —  Tintern  Abbey. 

"  So  once  it  would  have  been,  —  'tis  so  no  more ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control ; 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul.  —  Peele  Castle, 

"  We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be  ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering."  —  Intimations  of  Immortality. 

P.  62,  1.  II.  I.  Cf.  Lowell,  Latest  Literary  Essays,  6:  "Through  the 
whole  eighteenth  century  the  artificial  school  of  poetry  reigned  by  a  kind 
of  undivine  right  over  a  public  which  admired  —  and  yawned." 

L.  14.  2.  Cf.  Leslie  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  187:  "Other  poetry 
becomes  trifling  when  we  are  making  our  inevitable  passages  through  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  Wordsworth's  alone  retains  its  power. 
We  love  him  the  more  as  we  grow  older  and  become  more  deeply  im- 
pressed with  the  sadness  and  seriousness  of  life.  We  are  apt  to  grow 


SUPPLEMENTARY  ESSAY  (1815-1845).  113 

weary  of  his  rivals  when  we  have  finally  quitted  the  regions  of  youthful 
enchantment." 

L.  1 6.  3.  Cf.  Arnold,  On  Translating  Homer,  200:  "Homer  is  rapid 
in  his  movement,  Homer  is  plain  in  his  words  and  style.  Homer  is  simple 
in  his  ideas,  Homer  is  noble  in  his  manner."  Bagehot,  Literary  Studies, 
353 :  "  English  literature  contains  one  great,  one  nearly  perfect,  model  of 
pure  style  in  the  literary  expression  of  typical  sentiment ;  and'  one  not 
perfect,  but  gigantic  and  close  approximation  to  perfection  in  the  pure 
delineation  of  objective  character.  Wordsworth,  perhaps,  comes  as  near 
to  choice  purity  of  style  in  sentiment  as  is  possible.  Milton,  with  excep- 
tions and  conditions,  approaches  perfection  by  the  strenuous  purity  with 
which  he  depicts  character." 

L.  26,  4.  Cf.  Dowden,  Transcripts  and  Studies,  244 :  "  The  poetry  of 
Wordsworth  brought  a  new  thing  into  English  literature,  and  its  speech 
was  at  first  an  utterance  in  an  unknown  tongue." 

257:  "If  therefore  we  would  exclude,  as  far  as  possible,  a  personal 
disturbing  element  in  our  recognition  and  judgment  of  literature  and  art, 
we  shall  do  well  to  keep  constantly  in  the  company  of  some  one  of  the 
universal  writers." 

P.  62,  1.  31.  5.  Cf.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry,  57:  "Let  us  then  take 
courage,  and  accept  for  a  time,  as  settled,  the  old  conviction  that  the 
moral  substance  of  human  nature  is  the  soil  on  which  true  poetry  grows." 

Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  "  Milton,"  63 :  "  The  mighty  power  of 
poetry  and  art  is  generally  admitted.  But  where  the  soul  of  this  power, 
of  this  power  at  its  best,  chiefly  resides,  very  many  of  us  fail  to  see.  It 
resides  chiefly  in  the  refining  and  elevation  wrought  in  us  by  the  high  and 
rare  excellence  of  the  great  style." 

Lang,  Essays  in  Little,  181 :  "Science  advances,  old  knowledge  be- 
comes ignorance;  it  is  poetry  that  does  not  die,  and  that  will  not  die." 

P.  66,  1.  15.  i.  Jeffrey,  the  famous  Edinburgh  reviewer,  pronounced  the 
Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality  "  beyond  doubt  the  most  illegible  and 
unintelligible  part  of  the  publication  {Lyrical  Ballads}.  We  can  pre- 
tend to  give  no  analysis  or  explanation  of  it."  Cf.  Critical  Essays,  Francis 
Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review,  October,  i8o7-November,  1814;  and  for  con- 
trast compare  Lamb's  review  of  the  Excursion  in  the  Quarterly,  October, 
1814.  These  represent  what  some  one  has  called  Eyes  and  No  Eyes. 


114  NOTES. 

P.  67,  1.  14.  i.  Cf.  Edmund  Gosse,  From  Shakespeare  to  Pope  and 
Eighteenth  Century  Literature. 

P,  68,  1.  2.  I.   Cf.  Wordsworth,  sonnet,  Personal  Talk:  — 

"  Books,  we  know,' 

Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good: 
Round  these  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes  a  plenteous  store, 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear : 
Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear, — 
The  gentle  lady  married  to  the  Moor, 
And  heavenly  Una,  with  her  milk-white  lamb." 

P.  88,  1.  18.  I.  Cf.  Dallas,  Gay  Science,  Chs.  I.-VIL;  Ruskin,  Modern 
Painters,  Vol.  II.,  Part  III.,  Chs.  I.-IV.;  C.  C.  Everett,  Poetry,  Comedy 
and  Duty,  Chs.  I.-IV. 

P.  90,  1.  14.  i.  Cf.  Ruskin,  Stones  of  Venice,  Vol.  III.,  Ch.  IV.:  "Art 
is  valuable  or  otherwise,  only  as  it  expresses  the  personality,  activity,  and 
living  perception  of  a  good  and  great  human  soul." 

L.  27.  2.  Ruskin's  Modern  Painters  is  but  an  expansion  of  this  principle 
of  Wordsworth's  art. 

P.  93,  1.  20.  i. 

"  O  little  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard, 

If  men  neglect  your  pages? 
I  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine, 
I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages."  — TENNYSON. 

P.  94,  1.  23.  I.  Cf.  De  Vere,  Genius  and  Passion  of  Wordsworth, 
Wisdom  and  Truth  of  Wordsworth s  Poetry.  These  are  two  of  the  very 
best  estimates  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  that  we  have  in  the  language. 

To  determine  in  what  degree  Wordsworth's  estimate  of  the  results  of 
his  own  work  was  prophetic,  let  us  take  the  testimony  of  two  critics,  far 
removed  from  each  other  in  time,  —  Sir  Henry  Taylor  in  1834,  and  James 
Russell  Lowell  in  1884. 

"  The  sanative  influence  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetry  is  felt  —  where 
such  influence  is  most  wanted  —  in  natures  of  peculiar  sensibility;  and  it 


SUPPLEMENTARY  ESSAY  (1815-1845).  115 

applies  itself  to  that  which  in  those  natures  is  commonly  the  peccant  part. 
Gross  corruption  or  demoralization  is  not  ordinarily  to  be  apprehended  for 
such  minds;  but  they  are  subject  to  be  weakened,  wasted,  and  degraded 
by  the  vanities  and  petty  distractions  of  social  life  or  by  accesses  of  casual 
and  futile  amatory  sentiment.  The  love  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetry  takes 
possession  of  such  a  mind  like  a  virtuous  passion,  fortifying  it  against 
many  selfish  and  many  sentimental  weaknesses,  precluding  trivial  excite- 
ment, and  coupling  the  indulgence  (necessary  in  one  way  or  another)  of 
passionate  feeling  with  serious  study  and  as  much  intellectual  exercise  as 
the  understanding  may  happen  to  have  strength  to  bear.  To  such  a  mind 
.  .  .  how  often  and  with  what  an  invigorating  impulse  will  those  passages 
occur,  in  which  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  invoked,  with  all  plainness  and  gravity 
of  style,  but  with  an  earnestness  not  on  that  account  the  less  impressive, 
the  aid  which  is  requisite  to  make  the  weak  stand  fast :  — 

11  If  such  theme 

May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then  dread  Power, 
Whose  gracious  favour  is  the  primal  source 
Of  all  illumination,  may  my  life 
Express  the  image  of  a  better  time, 
More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners ;  nurse 
My  heart  in  genuine  freedom  ;  all  pure  thoughts 
Be  with  me,  —  so  shall  thy  unfailing  love 
Guide  and  support  and  cheer  me  to  the  end." 

—  TAYLOR. 

"  His  teaching,  whatever  it  was,  is  a  part  of  the  air  we  breathe,  and 
has  lost  that  charm  of  exclusion  and  privilege  that  kindled  and  kept  alive 
the  zeal  of  his  acolytes  while  it  was  still  sectarian  or  even  heretical.  His 
finest  utterances  do  not  merely  nestle  in  the  ear  by  virtue  of  their  music, 
but  in  the  soul  and  life  by  virtue  of  their  meaning.  .  .  .  Popular,  let  us 
acTmit,  he  can  never  be;  but  as  in  Catholic  countries  men  go  for  a  time 
into  retreat  from  the  importunate  dissonances  of  life  to  collect  their  better 
selves  again  by  communion  with  things  that  are  heavenly,  and  therefore 
eternal,  so  this  Chartreuse  of  Wordsworth,  dedicated  to  the  Genius  of 
Solitude,  will  allure  to  its  imperturbable  calm  the  finer  natures  and  the 
more  highly  tempered  intellects  of  every  generation,  so  long  as  man  has 
any  intuition  of  what  is  most  sacred  in  his  own  emotions  and  sympathies, 


116  NOTES. 

or  of  whatever  in  outward  nature  is  most  capable  of  awakening  them  and 
making  them  operative,  whether  to  console  or  strengthen.  And  over  the 
entrance-gate  to  that  purifying  seclusion  shall  be  inscribed,  '  The  teachers 
shall  shine  as  the  firmament;  and  they  that  turn  many  to  righteousness  as 
the  stars  forever  and  ever.' "  —  LOWELL. 


LETTER    TO  LADY  BEAUMONT. 

Perhaps  no  friend  of  Wordsworth  is  more  deserving  of  remembrance 
than  Sir  George  Beaumont.  He  was  among  the  very  first  to  recognize 
the  high  quality  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  and  by  word  and  deed  minis- 
tered to  the  author's  strength  and  encouragement.  During  the  rebuilding 
of  Coleorton  Hall,  Sir  George  occupied  the  farm-house  adjoining;  and  on 
leaving  it  in  the  fall  of  1806,  he  invited  the  Wordsworths  to  spend  the 
winter  there.  As  the  home  at  Town  End  was  too  small  for  the  growing 
family,  they  accepted  the  invitation,  and  in  October  left  Grasmere  for 
Leicestershire.  While  at  Coleorton,  Wordsworth  was  busy  planning  the 
grounds  —  especially  the  winter  garden  —  of  the  hall,  and  besides  the 
inscriptions  for  various  places  in  the  grounds,  he  wrote  the  following  to 
Lady  Beaumont :  — 

11  Lady !  the  songs  of  spring  were  in  the  grove 
While  I  was  shaping  beds  for  winter  flowers, 
While  I  was  planting  green,  unfading  bowers, 
And  shrubs  to  hang  upon  the  warm  alcove, 
And  sheltering  wall ;  and  still,  as  fancy  wove 
The  dream,  to  time  and  nature's  blended  powers 
I  gave  this  paradise  for  winter  hours, 
A  labyrinth,  Lady !  which  your  feet  shall  rove  : 
Yes !  when  the  sun  of  life  more  feebly  shines, 
Becoming  thoughts,  I  trust,  of  solemn  gloom 
Or  of  high  gladness  you  shall  hither  bring ; 
And  these  perennial  bowers  and  murmuring  pines 
Be  gracious  as  the  music  and  the  bloom 
And  all  the  mighty  ravishment  of  Spring." 

Cf.  Memories  of  Coleorton,  v.  I. 


LETTER    TO  LADY  BEAUMONT.  117 

In  the  year  1807  Wordsworth  published  the  two-volume  edition  of  his 
poems,  and  this  letter  relating  to  the  edition  shows  that  through  all  the 
storm  of  abuse  and  ribaldry  he  had  lost  none  of  his  confidence  in  the 
ultimate  victory  of  his  ideas.  Professor  Knight  has  truly  said,  "  The  letter 
is  altogether  unique  as  a  literary  forecast,  and  is  almost  sublime  in  its  calm 
anticipation  of  the  reversal  of  temporary  opinion  by  the  wiser  insight  of 
the  future."  In  October  of  this  year,  Jeffrey  launched  his  famous  diatribe 
against  Wordsworth,  which  contained  as  a  closing  paragraph  the  following : 
"  We  venture  to  hope  that  there  is  now  an  end  of  this  folly,  and  that,  like 
other  follies,  it  will  be  found  to  have  cured  itself  by  the  extravagances 
resulting  from  its  unbridled  indulgence." 

There  is  no  recent  utterance  so  full  of  the  spirit  and  truth  of  this  letter 
as  the  first  chapter  of  Frederick  Harrison's  Choice  of  Books. 

P.  96,  1.  I.  i.  "Wordsworth,  Keats,  Shelley,  Coleridge,  Tennyson,  Car- 
lyle,  Whitman,  —  each  in  his  day  has  stood  in  the  stocks,  and  every  fool 
has  been  free  to  throw  a  cabbage-stump  or  a  rotten  egg  at  the  convicted 
culprit."  —  DOWDEN. 

L.  23.  2.  "  At  no  period  and  in  no  country  has  the  love  of  Truth 
existed  among  men  self-occupied,  or  mainly  devoted  to  external  things."  — 
DE  VERE. 

"  The  first  qualification  necessary  for  appreciating  poetry  is  unworldli- 
ness.  By  worldliness,  I  mean  entanglement  in  the  temporal  and  the 
visible."  —  F.  Wr.  ROBERTSON. 

P.  97,  1.  8.  i.  Cf.  note  2,  p.  I.  "  What  earth's  far-off  lonely  mountains 
do  for  the  plains  and  the  cities,  that  Wordsworth  has  done  and  will  do  for 
literature,  and  through  literature  for  society,  sending  down  great  rivers  of 
higher  truth,  fresh  purifying  winds  of  feeling,  to  those  who  least  dream 
from  what  quarter  they  come.  The  more  thoughtful  of  each  generation 
will  draw  nearer  and  observe  him  more  closely,  will  ascend  his  imaginative 
heights,  and  sit  under  the  shadow  of  his  profound  meditations,  and,  in 
proportion  as  they  do  so,  will  become  more  noble  and  pure  in  heart."  — 
SHAIRP. 

"  Not  Milton's  keen,  translunar  music  thine ; 

Not  Shakespeare's  cloudless,  boundless  human  view ; 
Not  Shelley's  flush  of  rose  on  peaks  divine ; 
Nor  yet  the  wizard  twilight  Coleridge  knew. 


iv 


118  NOTES. 

"  What  hadst  them  that  could  make  so  large  amends 
For  all  thou  hadst  not  and  thy  peers  possessed? 
Motion  and  fire,  swift  means  to  radiant  ends? 
Thou  hadst  for  weary  feet  the  gift  of  rest. 

11  From  Shelley's  dazzling  glow  or  thunderous  haze, 

From  Byron's  tempest  anger,  tempest  mirth, 
Men  turned  to  thee,  and  found  not  blast  and  blaze, 
Tumult  of  tottering  heavens,  but  peace  oil  earth. 

"  Nor  peace  that  grows  by  Lethe,  scentless  flower, 
There  in  white  languors  to  decline  and  cease ; 
But  peace  whose  names  are  also  rapture,  power, 
Clear  sight  and  love :  for  these  are  parts  of  peace. 

"  He  felt  the  charm  of  childhood,  grace  of  youth, 

Grandeur  of  age,  insisting  to  be  sung. 
The  impassioned  argument  was  simple  truth, 
Half  wondering  at  its  own  melodious  tongue. 

"  Impassioned?    Ay,  to  the  heart's  ecstatic  core ! 

But  far  removed  were  clangor,  storm,  and  feud ; 
For  plenteous  health  was  his  exceeding  store 

Of  Joy,  and  an  impassioned  quietude"  —  WILLIAM  WATSON. 


P.  98,  1.  1 6.  I.  "The  depth  of  Wordsworth's  devotion  to  true  liberty 
is  shown  by  the  large  number  of  his  best  sonnets  devoted  to  the  illustration 
of  events  which  record  her  history  and  vindicate  her  claims.  In  them 
alone  are  a  breadth  and  variety  of  thought  seldom  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
compass  of  a  poet's  works.  .  .  .  The  liberty  Wordsworth  sings  in  a  strain 
at  once  impassioned  and  profound  is  a  liberty  which  cannot  forget  its 
responsibilities,  and  cannot  but  exult  yet  more  in  its  duties  than  its  privi- 
leges." —  DE  VERE. 

P.  99,  1.  13.  I.  "The  noises  and  sights  and  talk,  the  whirl  and  volatility 
of  life  around  us,  are  too  strong  for  us.  A  society  which  is  forever  gossip- 
ing in  a  sort  of  perpetual '  drum '  loses  the  very  faculty  of  caring  for  anything 
but  *  early  copies,'  and  the  last  tale  out."  —  FREDERICK  HARRISON. 


WORKS  REFERRED   TO  IN  THE  NOTES.  119 


P.  100,12.  I. 


"  Ah  !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force ; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breasts  to  steel ; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 
But  who,  ah !  who,  will  make  us  feel? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  — 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by?  "  —  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

"  Enough  that  there  is  none  since  risen  who  sings 

A  song  so  gotten  of  the  immediate  soul, 
So  instant  from  the  vital  fount  of  things 

Which  is  our  source  and  goal ; 
And  though  at  touch  of  later  hands  there  float 

More  artful  tones  than  from  his  lyre  he  drew, 
Ages  may  pass  ere  trills  another  note 

So  sweet,  so  pure,  so  true."  —  WILLIAM  WATSON. 


QUOTED  OR  REFERRED  TO  IN  THE  NOTES. 

ARNOLD,  M.  —  Essays  in  Criticism.     Macmillan. 
ARNOLD,  M.  —  Essays  in  Criticism  (2d  series).     Macmillan. 
ARNOLD,  M.  —  On  Translating  Homer.     Macmillan. 
ARNOLD,  M.  —  Discourses  in  America.     Macmillan. 
ARNOLD,  M.  —  Poems.     Macmillan. 
BAGEHOT,  W.  —  Literary  Studies.     Longmans. 
BUTCHER.  —  Glimpses  of  Greek  Genius.     Macmillan. 

•  BROOKE,  S.  A.  —  Theology  in  English  Poets.     Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co. 
COLERIDGE,  S.  T.  —  Biographia  Literaria.     Bohn. 
CORSON,  H.  — Introduction  to  Browning.     D.  C.  Heath. 


120  NOTES. 

DALLAS,  E.  S.  —  Gay  Science.     Chapman  &  Hall. 
DE  VERE,  A.  —  Essays,  Literary  and  Ethical.     Macmillan. 
DE  VERE,  A.  —  Essays,  chiefly  on  Poetry.     Macmillan. 
DOWDEN,  E.  —  Transcripts  and  Studies.     Kegan  Paul,  Tr,ench  &  Co. 
ELIOT,  G.  —  Letters. 

EVERETT,  C.  C.  —  Poetry,  Comedy,  and  Duty.     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
GOSSE,  E.  —  From  Shakespeare  to  Pope.     Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 
GOSSE,  E.  —  Eighteenth  Century  Literature.     Macmillan. 
HARRISON,  T.  —  Choice  of  Books.     Macmillan. 

JEFFREY,  Sir  F.  —  Edinburgh  Review.     October,  i8o7~November,  1814. 
KNIGHT,  W.  —  Life  of  Wordsworth,  X.     Paterson. 
KEATS,  J.  —  Poems. 

-  LOWELL,  J.  R.  —  Latest  Literary  Essays.     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
LOWELL,  J.  R.  —  Democracy  and  Other  Essays.     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
LAMB,  C.  —Quarterly  Review.     October,  1814. 

MYERS,  F.  H.  W.  —  Wordsworth :  English  Men  of  Letters.     Macmillan. 
NEWMAN,  J.  H.  —  Essays  on  Aristotle's  Poetics  (Cook).     Ginn  &  Co. 
PATER,  WT.  —  Appreciations.     Macmillan. 
PRICKARD.  —  Aristotle  on  the  Art  of  Poetry.     Macmillan. 
ROBERTSON,  F.  W.  —  Lectures  and  Addresses.     Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co. 
RUSKIN,  J.  —  Modern  Painters.     John  Wiley  &  Sons. 
SCHOPENHAUER,  A.  —  Art  of  Literature  (Sanders).     Swan,   Sonnenschein 

&Co. 

SHAIRP,  J.  C.  —  Aspects  of  Poetry.     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
SHAIRP,  J.   C.  —  Studies  in  Poetry  and    Philosophy.     Houghton,  Mifflin 

&Co. 

SHELLEY,  P.  B.  —  Defense  of  Poetry  (Cook).     Ginn  &  Co. 
SIDNEY,  Sir  P.  —  Defence  of  Poesy  (Cook).     Ginn  &  Co. 
STEPHEN,  L.  —  Hours  in  a  Library  (3d  edition).     Smith,  Elder  &  Co. 
SYMONDS,  J.  A.  —  Essays,  Speculative  and  Suggestive.     Chapman  &  Hall. 
TENNYSON,  A.  —  Poems.     Macmillan. 

TAYLOR,  Sir  H.  —  Critical  Essays  on  Poetry.     Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co. 
WORDSWORTH,  W.  —  Poems  (Knight).     Paterson. 
WATSON,  W.  —  Poems.     Macmillan. 


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